“I don't know.” There was a puzzled note in Mary's voice. “I can't understand the son's taking such a distinctly second place.” McEwan's face expanded into one of his huge smiles. “It's true, ye could not. That's the way God made ye, and I'll tell ye about that, too, some day,” he said, rising to go. “Good-bye, Mr. Holmes,” she smiled, as she saw him out. Before going to bed that night Mary examined her conscience. Why had she not been to town to see Stefan's work? She knew that the baby--whose feeding times now came less frequently--was no longer an adequate excuse. She had blamed Stefan in her heart for his indifference to her work--was she not becoming guilty of the same neglect? Was she not in danger of a worse fault, the mean and vulgar fault of jealousy? She felt herself flushing at the thought. Two days later Mary put on her last year's suit, now a little shabby, kissed the baby, importuned the beaming Lily to be careful of him, and drove to the train in one of the village livery stable's inconceivably decrepit coupes. It was about twelve o 'clock when she arrived at the studio, and, ringing the bell, mounted the well-known stairs with a heart which, in spite of herself, beat anxiously. Stefan opened the door irritably, but his frown changed to a look of astonishment, followed by an exuberant smile, as he saw who it was. “Here comes Demeter,” he cried, calling into the room behind him. “Why, Mary, I'm honored. Has Elliston actually released his prisoner at last?” He drew her into the studio, and kissed her almost with ostentation. “Let's suspend the sitting, Felicity,” he cried, “and show our work.” Mary looked about her. Her old home was almost unchanged. There was the painted bureau, the divan, the big easel, the model throne where she had posed as Danaë. It was unchanged, yet how different. From the throne stepped down a small svelt figure-it rippled toward her, its gown shimmering like a fire seen through water. It was Felicity, and her dress was made from the great piece of oriental silk Stefan had bought when they were first married, and which they had used as a cover for their couch. Mary recognized it instantly--there could be no mistake. She stared stupidly, unable to find speech, while Miss Berber's tones were wafted to her like an echo from cooing doves. “Ah, Mrs. Byrd,” she was saying, “how lovely you look as a matron. We are having a short sitting in my luncheon hour. This studio calms me after the banal cackling of my clients. I almost think of ceasing to create raiment, I weary so of the stupidities of New York's four hundred. Corsets, heels”--her hands fluttered in repudiation. She sank full length upon the divan, lighting a cigarette from a case of mother-of-pearl. “Your husband is the only artist, Mrs. Byrd, who has succeeded in painting me as an individual instead of a beauty. It's relieving”--her voice fainted--“very”--it failed--her lids drooped, she was still.