McEwan was nothing loath. He helped himself to a cigarette, and proceeded to survey the walls of the room with interest. “Nifty work, Mrs. Byrd. You must be proud of him,” and again Mary seemed to catch a glint in his eye. “These sketches now,” he approached the table on which lay the skyscraper studies. “Very harsh--cruel, you might say--but clever, yes, _sir_, mighty clever.” Mary saw Stefan writhe with irritation at the other's air of connoisseur. She shot him a glance at once amused and pleading, but he ignored it with a shrug, as if to indicate that Mary was responsible for this intrusion, and must expect no aid from him. McEwan now faced the easel which held the great Danaë, shrouded by a cloth. “Is this the latest masterpiece--can it be seen?” he asked, turning to his host, his hand half stretched to the cover. Mary made an exclamation of denial, and started forward to intercept the hand. But even as she moved, dismay visible on her face, the perverse devil which had been mounting in Stefan's brain attained the mastery. She had asked him to be nice to this jackass--very well, he would. “Yes, that's the best thing I've done, McEwan. As you're a friend of both of us, you ought to see it,” he exclaimed, and before Mary could utter a protest had wheeled the easel round to the light and thrown back the drapery. He massed the candles on the mantelpiece. “Here,” he called, “stand here where you can see properly. Mythological, you see, Danaë. What do you think of it?” There were mischief and triumph in his tone, and a shadow of spite. Mary had blushed crimson and stood, incapable of speech, in the darkest corner of the room. McEwan had not noticed her protest, it had all happened so instantaneously. He followed Stefan's direction, and faced the canvas expectantly. There was a long silence. Mary, watching, saw the spruce veneer of metropolitanism fall from their guest like a discarded mask--the grave, steady Highlander emerged. Stefan's moment of malice had flashed and died--he stood biting his nails, already too ashamed to glance in Mary's direction. At last McEwan turned. There was homage in his eyes, and gravity.