Once, as they were going to bed, she showed Stefan the baby lying on his chest, one fist balled on either side of the pillow, the downy back of his head shining in the candle-light. She stooped and kissed it. “His head is too deliciously soft and warm, Stefan; do kiss it good-night.” His face contracted into an expression of distaste. “No,” he said, “I can't kiss babies,” and left the room. She felt terribly, unnecessarily hurt. It was so difficult for her to make advances, so fatally easy for him to rebuff them. After that, she did not draw the baby to his attention again. Perhaps, had the child been a girl, Stefan would have felt more sentiment about it. A girl baby, lying like a pink bud among the roses of the garden, might have appealed to that elfin imagination which largely took the place in him of romance--but a boy! A boy was merely in his eyes another male, and Stefan considered the world far too full of men already. He sealed his attitude when the question of the child's name came up. Mary had fallen into a habit of calling it “Little Stefan,” or “Steve” for short, and one morning, as the older Stefan crossed the lawn to his studio her voice floated down from the nursery in an improvised song to her “Stefan Baby.” He bounded upstairs to her. “Mary,” he called, “you are surely not going to call that infant by my name?” Mary, her lap enveloped in aprons and towels, looked up from the bath in which her son was practising tentative kicks. “Why, yes, dear, I thought we'd christen him after you, as he's the eldest. Don't you think that would be nice?” She looked puzzled. “No, I do not!” Stefan snorted emphatically. “For heaven's sake give the child a name of his own, and let me keep mine. My God, one Stefan Byrd is enough in the world, I should think!” “Well, dear, what shall we call him, then?” she asked, lowering her head over the baby to hide her hurt. “Give him your own name if you want to. After all, he's your child. Elliston Byrd wouldn't sound at all bad.” “Very well,” said Mary slowly. “I think the Dad would have been pleased by that.” In spite of herself, her voice trembled. “Good Lord, Mary, I haven't hurt you, have I?” He looked exasperated. She shook her head, still bending over the baby. “It's all right, dear,” she whispered. “You're so soft nowadays, one hardly dare speak,” he muttered. “Sorry, dear,” and with a penitent kiss for the back of her neck he hastened downstairs again. The christening was held two weeks later, in the small Episcopalian church of Crab's Bay. Stefan could see no reason for it, as neither he nor Mary was orthodox, but when he suggested omitting the ceremony she looked at him wide-eyed. “Not christen him, Stefan? Oh, I don't think that would be fair,” she said. Her manner was simple, but there was finality in her tone--it made him feel that wherever her child was concerned she would be adamant.