“I tell you what 'tis, Mary Elliston Byrd,” said Miss Mason. “It's 'bout time you saw a doctor. My mother was a physician-homeopath, one of the first that ever graduated. Take my advice, and have a woman.” “I'd much rather,” said Mary. “I should say!” agreed the other. “I never was one to be against the men, but oh, my--” she threw up her bony little hands--“if there's one thing I never could abide it's a man doctor for woman's work. I s'pose I got started that way by what my mother told me of the medical students in her day. Anyway, it hardly seems Christian to me for a woman to go to a man doctor.” Mary laughed. “I wish my dear old Dad could have heard you. I remember he once refused to meet a woman doctor in consultation. She had to leave Lindum--no one would employ her. I was a child at the time, but even then it seemed all wrong to me.” “My dear, you thank the Lord you live under the Stars and Stripes,” rejoined Miss Mason, who conceived of England as a place beyond the reach of liberty for either women or men. “I shall live under the Tricolor if Stefan has his way,” smiled Mary. “Child,” said her visitor, putting on her hat, “don't say it. Your husband's an elegant man--I admire him--but don't you ever let me hear he doesn't love his country.” “I'm certainly learning to love it myself,” Mary discreetly evaded. “You're too fine a woman not to,” retorted the other. “Now I tell you. I've been treated for my chest at the Women's and Children's Hospital. There's one little doctor there's cute's she can be. I'm goin' to get you her address. You've got to treat yourself right. Good-bye,” nodded the little woman; and was gone in her usual brisk fashion. It was the day of Mr. Farraday's expected call, and Miss Mason had hardly departed when the bell rang. Mary hastily put away her sewing and pressed the electric button which opened the downstairs door to visitors. She wished Stefan were back again to help her entertain the editor, and greeted him with apologies for her husband's absence. She was anxious that this man, whom she instinctively liked and trusted, should see her husband at his best. Seating Farraday in the Morris chair, she got him some tea, while he looked about with interest. The two big pictures, “Tempest,” and “Pursuit,” now hung stretched but unframed, on either side of the room. Farraday's gaze kept returning to them. “Those are his Beaux Arts pictures; extraordinary, aren't they?” said Mary, following his eyes. “They certainly are. Remarkably powerful. I understand there is another, though, that he has only just finished?” “Yes, it's on the easel, covered, you see,” she answered. “Stefan must have the honor of showing you that himself.” “I wish you would tell me, Mrs. Byrd,” said Farraday, changing the subject, “how you happened to write those verses? Had you been brought up with children, younger brothers and sisters, for instance?”