“That explains it,” nodded Farraday gravely. “Well, Mr. Byrd, there are undoubtedly publications in which these drawings could find a place, and I am only sorry that mine are not amongst them. May I, however, venture to offer you a suggestion?” Stefan was beginning to look bored, but Mary interposed with a quick “Oh, please do!” Farraday turned to her. “Mrs. Byrd, you will bear me out in this, I think. Your husband has genius--that is beyond question--but he is unknown here as yet. Would it not be a pity for him to be introduced to the American public through these rather sinister drawings? We are not fond of the too frank critic here, you know,” he smiled, whimsically. “You may think me a Philistine, Mr. Byrd,” he continued, “but I have your welfare in mind. Win your public first with smiles, and later they may perhaps accept chastisement from you. If you have any drawings in a different vein I shall feel honored in publishing them”--his tone was courteous--“if not, I should suggest that you seek your first opening through the galleries rather than the press. Whichever way you decide, if I can assist you at all by furnishing introductions, I do hope you will call on me. Both for your wife's sake and for your own, it would be a pleasure. And now”--gathering up the drawings--“I must ask you both to excuse me, as I have a long string of appointments. Mrs. Byrd, I will write you our offer for the verses. I don't know about the illustrations; you must consult your husband.” They found themselves at the door bidding him goodbye: Mary with a sense of disappointment mingled with comprehension; Stefan not knowing whether the more to deplore what he considered Farraday's Philistinism, or to admire his critical acumen. “His papers and his policy are piffling,” he summed up at last, as they walked down the Avenue, “but I must say I like the man himself--he is the first person of distinction I have seen since I left France.” “Oh! Oh! The first?” queried Mary. “Darling,” he seized her hand and pressed it, “I said the first person, not the first immortal!” He had a way of bestowing little endearments in public, which Mary found very attractive, even while her training obliged her to class them as solecisms. “I felt sure you would like him. He seems to me charming,” she said, withdrawing the hand with a smile. “Grundy!” he teased at this. “Yes, the man is all right, but if that is a sample of their attitude toward original work over here we have a pretty prospect of success. 'Genius, get thee behind me!' would sum it up. Imbeciles!” He strode on, his face mutinous. Mary was thinking. She knew that Farraday's criticism of her husband's work was just. The word “sinister” had struck home to her. It could be applied, she felt, with equal truth to all his large paintings but one--the Danaë. “Stefan,” she asked, “what did you think of his advice to win the public first by smiles?”