His face had dropped. He was staring at the drawing with an expression of almost comic disappointment.
“Why, Stefan,” she laughed, rather uncomfortably, “you didn't think I could draw, did you?”
“No, no, it isn't that, Mary. It's just—the house. I thought you might—perhaps draw birds—or flowers.”
“Birds?—or flowers?” She was at a loss.
“It doesn't matter; just an idea.”
He crumpled up the little house, and closed the paintbox. “I'm going out for awhile; good-bye, dearest”; and, with a kiss, he left the room.
Mary sat still, too surprised for remonstrance, and in a moment heard the bang of the flat door.
“Birds, or flowers?” Suddenly she remembered something Stefan had told her, on the night of their engagement, about his mother. So that was it. Tears came to her eyes. Rather lonely, she went to bed.
Meanwhile Stefan, his head bare in the cold wind, was speeding up the Avenue on the top of an omnibus.
“Houses are cages,” he said to himself. For some reason, he felt hideously depressed.