“That fool McEwan came to the studio to-day,” he complained. “It was all I could do not to shut the door in his face. Of all the chuckleheads! What do you think he called the Nixie? 'A tricky piece of work!' Tricky!” Stefan kicked the fire disgustedly. “And it's the best thing I've done!”
“As for the portrait, he said it was 'fine and dandy,' the idiot. And the maddening thing was,” he went on, turning to Mary, and uncovering the real source of his offense, “that Felicity positively encouraged him! Why, the man must have sat there talking with her for an hour. I could not paint a stroke, and he didn't go till I had said so three times!” completed Stefan, looking positively ferocious. “What in the fiend's name, Mary, did she do it for?” He collapsed on the sofa beside her, like a child bereft of a toy. Mary could not help laughing at his tragic air.
“I suppose she did it to annoy, because she knew it teased,” she suggested.
“How I loathe fooling and play-acting!” he exclaimed disgustedly. “Thank God, Mary, you are sincere. One knows where one is with you!”
He seemed thoroughly upset. Miss Berber's pin-prick must have been severe, Mary thought, if it resulted in a compliment for her.
The next evening, Mary being alone, Wallace dropped in. For some time they talked of Jamie and Elliston, and of Mary's book.
He was Scotch to-night, as he usually was now when they were alone together. Cheerful as ever, his cheer was yet slow and solid—the comedian was not in evidence.
“Hae ye been up yet to see the new pictures?” he asked presently. She shook her head.
“Ye should go, bairn, they're a fine key. Clever as the devil, but naething true about them. After the Danaë-piff!” and he snapped his fingers. “Ye hae no call to worry, you're the hub, Mary—let the wheel spin a wee while!”
She blushed. “Wallace, I believe you're a wizard—or a detective.”