Mary was thoroughly annoyed. “Please don't talk like that,” she reiterated. “You don't know how it hurts when you are so flippant. If you suggest such a reason for his acceptance of my work, of course I can't send in any more.” Tears of vexation were in her eyes. “Darling, don't be absurd,” he responded, teasingly. “Why shouldn't he be in love with you? I expect everybody to be so. As for your verses, of course he wouldn't take them if they weren't good; I didn't mean that.” “Then why did you say it?” she asked, unplacated. “Dearest!” and he kissed her. “Don't be dignified; be Aphrodite again, not Pallas. I never mean anything I say, except when I say I love you!” “Love isn't the only thing, Stefan,” she replied. “Isn't it? What else is there? I don't know,” and he jumped on the table and sat smiling there with his head on one side, like a naughty little boy facing his schoolmaster. She wanted to answer “comprehension,” but was silent, feeling the uselessness of further words. How expect understanding of a common human hurt from this being, who alternately appeared in the guise of a god and a gamin? She remembered the old tale of the maiden wedded to the beautiful and strange elf-king. Was the legend symbolic of that mysterious thread--call it genius or what you will--that runs its erratic course through humanity's woof, marring yet illuminating the staid design, never straightened with its fellow-threads, never tied, and never to be followed to its source? With the feeling of having for an instant held in her hand the key to the riddle of his nature, Mary went to Stefan and ran her fingers gently through his hair. “Child,” she said, smiling at him rather sadly; and “Beautiful,” he responded, with a prompt kiss. X The next morning brought Constance Elliot, primed with a complete scheme for the future of the Danaë. She found Mary busy with her sewing and Stefan rather restlessly cleaning his pallette and brushes. The great picture was propped against the wall, a smaller empty canvas being screwed on the easel. Stefan greeted her enthusiastically. “Come in!” he cried, forestalling Mary. “You find us betwixt and between. She's finished,” indicating the Danaë, “and I'm thinking of doing an interior, with Mary seated. I don't know,” he went on thoughtfully; “it's quite out of my usual line, but we're too domestic here just now for anything else.” His tone was slightly grumbling. From the rocking chair Constance smiled importantly on them both. She had the happy faculty of never appearing to hear what should not have been expressed. “Children,” she said, “your immediate future is arranged. I have a plan for the proper presentation of the masterpiece to a waiting world, and I haven't been responsible for two suffrage matinees and a mile of the Parade for nothing. I understand publicity. Now listen.”