“Now we can talk,” exhaled their hostess on a spiral of smoke. “I never see strangers in the morning, not even friends of dear Connie's, but there was something in the name--” She seemed to be fingering a small knob protruding from the lacquer of her couch. It must have been a bell, for in a moment the green maiden appeared. “Chloris, has that picture come for the sylvan fitting room?” she murmured. “Yes? Bring it, please.” Her gesture seemed to waft the damsel over the floor. During this interlude the Byrds were silent, Stefan hugely entertained, Mary beginning to feel a slight antagonism toward this super-casual dressmaker. A moment and the attendant nymph reappeared, bearing a large canvas framed in glistening green wood. “Against the table--toward Mr. Byrd.” Miss Berber supplemented the murmur with an indicative gesture. “You know that?” dropped from her lips as the nymph glided away. It was Stefan's pastoral of the dancing faun. He nodded gaily, but Mary felt herself blushing. Her husband's work destined for a fitting room! “I thought so,” Miss Berber enunciated through a breath of smoke. “I picked it up the other day. Quite lovely. My sylvan fitting room required just that note. I use it for country raiment only. Atmosphere, Mr. Byrd. I want my clients to feel young when they are preparing for the country. I am glad to see you here.” Stefan reciprocated. So far, Miss Berber had ignored Mary. “I might consult you about my next color scheme--original artists are so rare. I change this room every year.” Her eyelids drooped. At this point Mary ventured to draw attention to herself. “Why is it, Miss Berber,” she asked in her clear English voice, “that you have only couches here?” Felicity's lids trembled; she half looked up. “How seldom one hears a beautiful voice,” she uttered. “Chairs, Mrs. Byrd, destroy women's beauty. Why sit, when one can recline? My clients may not wear corsets; reclining encourages them to feel at ease without.” Mary found Miss Berber's affectations absurd, but this explanation heightened her respect for her intelligence. “Method in her madness,” she quoted to herself. “Miss Berber, I want you to create a gown for my wife. I am sure when you look at her you will be interested in the idea.” Stefan expected every one to pay tribute to Mary's beauty. Again Miss Berber's fingers strayed. The nymph appeared. “How long have I, Chloris? ... Half an hour? Then send me Daphne. You notice the silence, Mr. Byrd? It rests my clients, brings health to their nerves. Without it, I could not do my work.” Mary smiled as she mentally contrasted these surroundings with Farraday's office, where she had last heard that expression. Was quiet so rare a privilege in America, she wondered?