“Mr. Byrd,” Constantine had pronounced, in his heavy, imperfect English, “I think we would make a bad mistake to exhibit these paintings now. Technically they are clever, oh, very clever indeed, but they would be unpopular; and this once,” he smiled shrewdly, “the public would be right about it. Your Danaë was a big conception as well as fine painting; it had inspiration--feeling--” his thick but supple hands circled in emphasis--“we don't want to go back simply to cleverness. When you paint me something as big again as that one I exhibit it; otherwise,” with a shrug, “I think we spoil our market.” After this visit Stefan, quite unperturbed, had turned the two fantasies to the wall. “I dare say Constantine is right about them,” he said; “they are rather crazy things, and anyhow, I'm sick of them.” Mary was quite relieved to have them hidden. The merman in particular had got upon her nerves of late. As the winter advanced, the Byrds' circle of acquaintances grew, and many visitors dropped into the studio for tea. These showed much interest in Stefan's new picture, a large study of Mary in the guise of Demeter, for which she was posing seated, robed in her Berber gown. Miss Mason in particular was delighted with the painting, which she dubbed a “companion piece” to the Danaë. The story of Constantine's decision against the two salon canvases got about and, amusingly enough, heightened the Byrds' popularity. The Anglo-Saxon public is both to take its art neat, preferring it coated with a little sentiment. It now became accepted that Stefan's genius was due to his wife, whose love had lighted the torch of inspiration. “Ah, Mr. Byrd,” Miss Mason had summed up the popular view, in one of her rare romantic moments, “the love of a good woman--!” Stefan had looked completely vague at this remark, and Mary had burst out laughing. “Why, Sparrow,” for so, to Miss Mason's delight, she had named her, “don't be Tennysonian, as Stefan would say. It was Stefan's power to feel love, and not mine to call it out, that painted the Danaë,” and she looked at him with proud tenderness. But the Sparrow was unconvinced. “You can't tell me. If 'twas all in him, why didn't some other girl over in Paris call it out long ago?” “Lots tried,” grinned Stefan, with his cheeky-boy expression. “Ain't he terrible,” Miss Mason sighed, smiling. She adored Mary's husband, but consistently disapproved of him.