Mary was deeply disturbed. Led on by a chance phrase of hers, he was actually boasting of just that lack which was becoming her secret fear for him. She touched his arm, pleadingly.
“Stefan, don't speak like that; it hurts me dreadfully. It is awful for any one to build up a barrier between himself and the world. It means much unhappiness, both for himself and others.”
He laughed affectionately at her. “Why, sweet, what do we care? I love you enough to make the balance true. You are on my side of the barrier, shutting me in with beauty.”
“Is that your only reason for loving me?” she asked, still distressed.
“I love you because you have a beautiful body and a beautiful mind—because you are like a winged goddess of inspiration. Could there be a more perfect reason?”
Mary was silent. Again the burden of his ideal oppressed her. There was no comfort in it. It might be above humanity, she felt, but it was not of it. Again her mind returned to the pictures and Farraday's criticism. “Sinister!” So he would have summed up all the others, except the Danaë. To that at least the word could not apply. Her heart lifted at the realization of how truly she had helped Stefan. In his tribute to her there was only beauty. She knew now that her gift must be without reservation.
Home again, she stood long before the picture, searching its strange face. Was she wrong, or did there linger even here the sinister, half-human note?
“Stefan,” she said, calling him to her, “I was wrong to ask you not to make the face like me. It was stupid—'Tennysonian,' I'm afraid.” She smiled bravely. “It is me—your ideal of me, at least—and I want you to make the face, too, express me as I seem to you.” She leant against him. “Then I want you to exhibit it. I want you to be known first by our gift to each other, this—which is our love's triumph.” She was trembling; her face quivered—he had never seen her so moved. She fired him.
“How glorious of you, darling!” he exclaimed, “and oh, how beautiful you look! You have never been so wonderful. If I could paint that rapt face! Quick, I believe I can get it. Stand there, on the throne.” He seized his pallette and brushes and worked furiously while Mary stood, still flaming with her renunciation. In a few minutes it was done. He ran to her and covered her face with kisses. “Come and look!” he cried exultingly, holding her before the canvas.
The strange face with its too-wide eyes and exotic mouth was gone. Instead, she saw her own purely cut features, but fired by such exultant adoration as lifted them to the likeness of a deity. The picture now was incredibly pure and passionate—the very flaming essence of love. Tears started to her eyes and dropped unheeded. She turned to him worshiping.