“Wicked one! I thought, like Persephone, you had been carried off by Dis and his wagon,” he chided. “I could not work when I realized you had been gone so long. Where have you been?” He looked quite woebegone. “Ah, I'm so glad you missed me,” she cried from his arms. Then, unable to contain her delight, she danced to the center of the room, and, throwing back her head, burst into song. “Praise God from whom all blessings flow,” chanted Mary full-throated, her chest expanded, pouring out her gratitude as whole-heartedly as a lark. “Mary, I can see your wings,” interrupted Stefan excitedly. “You're soaring!” He seized a stick of charcoal and dashed for paper, only to throw down his tools again in mock despair. “Pouf, you're beyond sketching at this moment--you need a cathedral organ to express you. What has happened? Have you been sojourning with the immortals?” But Mary had stopped singing, and dropped on the divan as if suddenly tired. She held out her arms to Stefan, and he sat beside her, lover-like. “Oh, dearest,” she said, her voice vibrating with tenderness, “I've wanted so to help, and now I think I've sold a story, and I've found a chance for your New York drawings. I'm so happy.” “Why, you mysterious creature, your eyes have tears in them--and all because you've helped me! I've never seen your tears, Mary; they make your eyes like stars lost in a pool.” He kissed her passionately, and she responded, but waited eagerly to hear him praise her success. After a moment, however, he got up and wandered to his drawing board. “You say you found a chance for these,” indicating the sketches. “How splendid of you! Tell me all about it.” He was eagerly attentive, but she might never have mentioned her story. Apparently, that part of her report simply had not registered in his brain. Mary's spirits suddenly dropped. She had come from an interview in which she was treated as a serious artist, and her husband could not even hear the account of her success. She rose and began to prepare their luncheon, recounting her adventures meanwhile in a rather flat voice. Stefan listened to her description of McEwan's metamorphosis only half credulously. “Don't tell me,” he commented, “that the cloven hoof will not out. Do you mean to say it's to him that you owe this chance?” She nodded. “I don't see how we can take favors from that brute,” he said, running his hands moodily into his pockets. Mary looked at him in frank astonishment. “I don't understand you, Stefan,” she said. “Mr. McEwan was kindness itself, and I am grateful to him, but there can be no question of receiving favors on your part. He introduced me to Mr. Farraday as a writer, and it was only through me that your work was mentioned at all.” She was hurt by his narrow intolerance, and he saw it. “Very well, goddess, don't flash your lightnings at me.” He laughed gaily, and sat down to his luncheon. Throughout it Mary listened to a detailed account of his morning's work.