"Little Stefan, little Stefan," she whispered.
Then, leaving the nursery door ajar, she undressed noiselessly, and lay down on the cool, empty bed.
The following afternoon about teatime Stefan bicycled up from the station. Mary, who was in the sitting room, heard him calling from the gate, but did not go to meet him. He hurried into the room and kissed her half-turned cheek effusively.
"Well, dear, aren't you glad to see me?" he asked rather nervously.
"Do you know that you've been away six days, Stefan, and have only troubled to telephone me twice?" she answered, in a voice carefully controlled.
"You don't mean it!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea it was so long."
He fidgeted. "Well, dear, you know I'm frightfully keen on this new picture, and the journeys back and forth waste so much time. But as for the telephoning, I'm awfully sorry. I've been so absorbed I simply didn't remember. Why didn't you ring me up?"
"I didn't wish to interrupt a sitting. I rang twice in the evenings, but you were out."
"Yes; I've been trying to amuse myself a little." He was rocking from one foot to the other like a detected schoolboy.
"Hang it all, Mary," he burst out, "don't be so judicial. One must have some pleasure--I can't sit about this cottage all the time."
"I don't think I've asked you to do that."
"You haven't, but you seem to be implying the request now."
She was chilled to silence, having no heart to reason him out of so unreasonable a defense.
"Well, anyway," he said, flinging himself on the sofa, "here I am, so let's make the best of it. Tea ready?"
"That's good. When are you coming up to see the picture? It's going to be the best I've done. I shall get Constantine to exhibit it and that stick of a Demeter together, and then the real people and the fools will both have something to admire."
"You say this will be your best?" asked Mary, whom the phrase had stabbed.
"Well," he said reflectively, lighting a cigarette, "perhaps not better than the Danaë in one sense--it hasn't as much feeling, but has more originality. Miss Berber is such an unusual type--she's quite an inspiration."
"And I'm not, any more," Mary could not help adding in a muffled voice.
"Don't be so literal, my dear; of course you are, but not for this sort of picture." The assurance sounded perfunctory.