“He's the soul of kindness,” said Mary.
“Yes, a thoroughly good sort,” Stefan conceded. “Here are the New York sketches,” he went on, opening his portfolio on Farraday's desk. “Half a dozen of them.”
“Thank you, just a moment,” interposed the editor, who had opened Mary's manuscript. “Your wife's work takes precedence. She is an established contributor, you see,” he smiled, running his eyes over the pages.
Stefan sat down. “Of course,” he said, rather absently.
Farraday gave an exclamation of pleasure.
“Mrs. Byrd, these are good; unusually so. They have the Stevenson flavor without being imitations. A little condensation, perhaps—I'll pencil a few suggestions—but I must have them all. I would not let another magazine get them for the world! Let me see, how many are there! Eight. We might bring them out in a series, illustrated. What if I were to offer the illustrating to Mr. Byrd, eh?” He put down the sheets and glanced from wife to husband, evidently charmed with his idea. “What do you think, Mr. Byrd? Is your style suited to her work?” he asked.
Stefan looked thoroughly taken aback. He laughed shortly. “I'm a painter, Mr. Farraday, not an illustrator. I haven't time to undertake that kind of thing. Even these drawings,” he indicated the portfolio, “were done in spare moments as an amusement. My wife suggested placing them with you—I shouldn't have thought of it.”
To Mary his tone sounded needlessly ungracious, but the editor appeared not to notice it.
“I beg your pardon,” he replied suavely. “Of course, if you don't illustrate—I'm sorry. The collaboration of husband and wife would have been an attraction, even though the names were unknown here. I'll get Ledward to do them.”
Stefan sat up. “You don't mean Metcalf Ledward, the painter, do you?” he exclaimed.