Stefan, who was interested in Gunther, tried to get him to the barn to see his pictures; but the sculptor would not move his eyes from Mary, and Stefan, considerably bored, was obliged to content himself with showing the studio to some of his prettiest neighbors.
Nor did his spirits improve when the party came to an end.
“Bon Dieu!” he cried, flinging himself fretfully into a chair. “Is our house never to be free of chattering women? The only person here to-day who speaks my language was Gunther, and you never gave me a chance at him.”
Mary gasped, too astonished at this accusation to refute it.
“Ever since we came down here,” he went on irritably, “the place has seethed with people, and overflowed with domesticity. I never hear one word spoken except on the subject of furniture, gardening and babies! I can't work in such an environment; it stifles all imagination. As for you, Mary—”
He looked up at her. She was standing, stricken motionless, in the center of the room. Her hair, straighter than of old, seemed to droop over her ears; her form under its loose muslin dress showed soft and blurred, its clean-cut lines gone, while her face, almost as white as the gown, was woe-begone, the eyes dark with tears. She stood there like a hurt child, all her courageous gallantry eclipsed by this unkind ending to her happy day. Stefan rose to his feet and faced her, searching for some phrase that could express his sense of deprivation. He had the instinct to stab her into a full realization of what she was losing in his eyes.
“Mary,” he cried almost wildly, “your wings are gone!” and rushed out of the room.