She nodded, her eyes shining with tears. She could find no words to tell him how deeply she was touched. Her half-formed doubts were swept away--he was her own dear man, kind and comprehending. She took the little painting and sat with it on her knee, poring over it, Stefan standing by delighted at his success. Then he remembered his own parcels. The larger he opened first, and instantly donned one of the two knitted ties it held, proclaiming its golden brown vastly becoming. The smaller parcel contained a tiny jeweler's box, and in it Stefan found an old and heavy seal ring of pure design, set with a transparent greenish stone, which bore the intaglio of a winged head. He was enchanted. “Mary, you wonder,” he cried. “You must have created this--you couldn't just have found it. It symbolizes what you have given me--sums up all that you are!” and he kissed her rapturously. “Oh, Stefan,” she answered, “it is all perfect, for your gift symbolizes what you have brought to me!” “Yes, darling, but not all I am to you, I hope,” he replied, rubbing his cheek against hers. “Foolish one,” she smiled back at him. They spent a completely happy day, rejoicing in the successful attempt of each to penetrate the other's mind. They had never, even on their honeymoon, felt more at one. Later, Mary asked him about the missing sketch. “Yes, I sold it for the bird's trappings,” he answered gleefully; “wasn't it clever of me? But don't ask me for the horrid details, and don't tell me a word about my wonderful ring. I prefer to consider that you fetched it from Olympus.” And Mary, whose practical conscience had given her sharp twinges over her extravagance, was glad to let it rest at that. During the morning a great sheaf of roses came for Mary with the card of James Farraday, and on its heels a bush of white heather inscribed to them both from McEwan. The postman contributed several cards, and a tiny string of pink coral from Miss Mason. “How kind every one is!” Mary cried happily. In the afternoon the Corrianis were summoned. Mary had small presents for them and a glass of wine, which Stefan poured to the accompaniment of a song in his best Italian. This melted the somewhat sulky Corriani to smiles, and his wife to tears. The day closed with dinner at their beloved French hotel, and a bottle of Burgundy shared with Stefan's favorite waiters. XI During Christmas week Stefan worked hard at his interior, but about the fifth day began to show signs of restlessness. The following morning, after only half an hour's painting, he threw down his brush. “It's no use, Mary,” he announced, “I don't think I shall ever be able to do this kind of work; it simply doesn't inspire me.” She looked up from her sewing. “Why, I thought it promised charmingly.”