The baby's godmother was, of course, Constance, and his godfathers, equally obviously, Farraday and McEwan. Mary made the ceremony the occasion of a small at-home, inviting the numerous friends from whom she had received congratulations or gifts for the baby. Miss Mason had insisted on herself baking the christening cake; Farraday as usual supplied a sheaf of flowers. In the drawing room the little Elliston's presents were displayed, a beautiful old cup from Farraday, a christening robe, and a spoon, “pusher,” and fork from Constance, a silver bowl “For Elliston's porridge from his friend Wallace McEwan,” and a Bible in stout leather binding from Mrs. Farraday, inscribed in her delicate, slanting hand. There was even a napkin ring from the baby's aunt in England, who was much relieved that her too-independent sister had married a successful artist and done her duty by the family so promptly. Mary was naively delighted with these offerings. “He has got everything I should have liked him to have!” she exclaimed as she arranged them. Stefan, led to the font, showed all the nervousness he had omitted at the altar, but looked very handsome in a suit of linen crash, while Mary, in white muslin, was at her glowing best. Constance was inevitably late, for, like most American women, she did not carry her undeniable efficiency to the point of punctuality. At the last moment, however, she dashed up to the church with the élan of a triumphant general, bearing her husband captive in the tonneau, and no less a person than Gunther, the distinguished sculptor, on the seat beside her. “I know you did not ask him, but he's so handsome I thought he ought to be here,” she whispered inconsequentially to Mary after the ceremony. Of their many acquaintances few were unrepresented except Miss Berber, to whom Mary had felt disinclined to send an invitation. She had sounded Stefan on the subject, but had been answered by a “Certainly not!” so emphatic as to surprise her. At the house Gunther, with his great height and magnificent viking head, was unquestionably the hit of the afternoon. Holding the baby, which lay confidently in his powerful hands, he examined its head, arms and legs with professional interest, while every woman in the room watched him admiringly. “This baby, Mrs. Byrd, is the finest for his age I have ever seen, and I have modeled many of them,” he pronounced, handing it back to Mary, who blushed to her forehead with pleasure. “Not that I am surprised,” he went on, staring frankly at her, “when I look at his mother. I am doing some groups for the Pan-American exhibition next year in San Francisco. If you could give me any time, I should very much like to use your head and the baby's. I shall try and arrange it with you,” and he nodded as if that settled the matter.