“Mr. Farraday, he can't answer you. I'm afraid I've been stupid, but I was so pessimistic about these verses that I wouldn't show them to him. I thought I would get an outside criticism first, just to save my face,” she hurried on, anxious in reality to save her husband's. “I pleaded, but she was obdurate,” contributed Stefan, looking at her with reproach. Farraday smiled enlightenment. “I see. Well, I shall hope you will change your mind about the illustrations when you have read the poems--that is, if your style would adapt itself. Now may I see the sketches?” and he held out his hand for them. Stefan rose with relief. Much as he adored Mary, he could not comprehend the seriousness with which this man was taking the rhymes which she herself had described as “just little songs for children.” He was the more baffled as he could not dismiss Farraday's critical pretensions with contempt, the editor being too obviously a man of cultivation. Now, however, that attention had been turned to his own work, Stefan was at his ease. Here, he felt, was no room for doubts. “They are small chalk and charcoal studies of the spirit of the city--mere impressions,” he explained, putting the drawings in Farraday's hands with a gesture which belied the carelessness of his words. Farraday glanced at them, looked again, rose, and carried them to the window, where he examined them carefully, one by one. Mary watched him breathlessly, Stefan with unconcealed triumph. Presently he turned again and placed them in a row on the bare expanse of his desk. He stood looking silently at them for a moment more before he spoke. “Mr. Byrd,” he said at last, “this is very remarkable work.” Mary exhaled an audible breath of relief, and turned a glowing face to Stefan. “It is the most remarkable work,” went on the editor, “that has come into this office for some time past. Frankly, however, I can't use it.” Mary caught her breath--Stefan stared. The other went on without looking at them: “This company publishes strictly for the household. Our policy is to send into the average American home the best that America produces, but it must be a best that the home can comprehend. These drawings interpret New York as you see it, but they do not interpret the New York in which our readers live, or one which they would be willing to admit existed.” “They interpret the real New York, though,” interposed Stefan. “Obviously so, to you,” replied the editor, looking at him for the first time. “For me, they do not. These drawings are an arraignment, Mr. Byrd, and--if you will pardon my saying so--a rather bitter and inhuman one. You are not very patriotic, are you?” His keen eyes probed the artist. “Emphatically no,” Stefan rejoined. “I'm only half American by birth, and wholly French by adoption.”