Mary caught her breath—Stefan stared. The other went on without looking at them:
“This company publishes strictly for the household. Our policy is to send into the average American home the best that America produces, but it must be a best that the home can comprehend. These drawings interpret New York as you see it, but they do not interpret the New York in which our readers live, or one which they would be willing to admit existed.”
“They interpret the real New York, though,” interposed Stefan.
“Obviously so, to you,” replied the editor, looking at him for the first time. “For me, they do not. These drawings are an arraignment, Mr. Byrd, and—if you will pardon my saying so—a rather bitter and inhuman one. You are not very patriotic, are you?” His keen eyes probed the artist.
“Emphatically no,” Stefan rejoined. “I'm only half American by birth, and wholly French by adoption.”
“That explains it,” nodded Farraday gravely. “Well, Mr. Byrd, there are undoubtedly publications in which these drawings could find a place, and I am only sorry that mine are not amongst them. May I, however, venture to offer you a suggestion?”
Stefan was beginning to look bored, but Mary interposed with a quick “Oh, please do!” Farraday turned to her.
“Mrs. Byrd, you will bear me out in this, I think. Your husband has genius—that is beyond question—but he is unknown here as yet. Would it not be a pity for him to be introduced to the American public through these rather sinister drawings? We are not fond of the too frank critic here, you know,” he smiled, whimsically. “You may think me a Philistine, Mr. Byrd,” he continued, “but I have your welfare in mind. Win your public first with smiles, and later they may perhaps accept chastisement from you. If you have any drawings in a different vein I shall feel honored in publishing them”—his tone was courteous—“if not, I should suggest that you seek your first opening through the galleries rather than the press. Whichever way you decide, if I can assist you at all by furnishing introductions, I do hope you will call on me. Both for your wife's sake and for your own, it would be a pleasure. And now”—gathering up the drawings—“I must ask you both to excuse me, as I have a long string of appointments. Mrs. Byrd, I will write you our offer for the verses. I don't know about the illustrations; you must consult your husband.” They found themselves at the door bidding him goodbye: Mary with a sense of disappointment mingled with comprehension; Stefan not knowing whether the more to deplore what he considered Farraday's Philistinism, or to admire his critical acumen.
“His papers and his policy are piffling,” he summed up at last, as they walked down the Avenue, “but I must say I like the man himself—he is the first person of distinction I have seen since I left France.”
“Oh! Oh! The first?” queried Mary.