III
The next morning Stefan started immediately after his premier déjeuner of rolls and coffee in quest of the less important dealers, taking with him only his smaller canvases. “I'll stay away till five o'clock, not a minute longer,” he admonished. Mary, still seated in the dining-room over her English bacon and eggs—she had smilingly declined to adopt his French method of breakfasting—glowed acquiescence, and offered him a parting suggestion.
“Be sure to show them the baby in the wood.”
“Why that one?” he questioned. “You admit it isn't the best.”
“Perhaps, but neither are they the best connoisseurs. You'll see.” She nodded wisely at him.
“The oracle has spoken—I will obey,” he called from the door, kissing his fingers to her. She ventured an answering gesture, knowing the room empty save for waiters. She was almost as unselfconscious as he, but had her nation's shrinking from any public expression of emotion.
Hardly had he gone when the faithful Miss Mason arrived, her mild eyes almost youthful with enthusiasm. Prom a black satin reticule of dimensions beyond all proportion to her meager self she drew a list of names on which she discoursed volubly while Mary finished her breakfast.
“You'll get most everything at this first place,” she said. “It's pretty near the biggest department store in the city, and only two blocks from here—ain't that convenient? You can deal there right along for everything in the way of dry goods.”