“Beloved,” she cried, “you are great, great. I adore you,” and she kissed him passionately.
He had painted love's apotheosis, and his genius had raised her love to its level. At that moment Mary's actually was the soul of flame he had depicted it.
That day, illumined by the inspiration each had given each, was destined to mark a turning point in their common life. The next morning the understanding which Mary had for long instinctively feared, and against which she had raised a barrier of silence, came at last.
She was standing for some final work on the Danaë, but she had awakened feeling rather unwell, and her pose was listless. Stefan noticed it, and she braced herself by an effort, only to droop again. To his surprise, she had to ask for her rest much sooner than usual; he had hitherto found her tireless. But hardly had she again taken the pose than she felt herself turning giddy. She tottered, and sat down limply on the throne. He ran to her, all concern.
“Why, darling, what's the matter, aren't you well?” She shook her head. “What can be wrong?” She looked at him speechless.
“What is it, dearest, has anything upset you?” he went on with—it seemed to her—incredible blindness.
“I can't stand in that pose any longer, Stefan; this must be the last time,” she said at length, slowly.
He looked at her as she sat, pale-faced, drooping on the edge of the throne. Suddenly, in a flash, realization came to him. He strode across the room, looked again, and came back to her.
“Why, Mary, are you going to have a baby?” he asked, quite baldly, with a surprised and almost rueful expression.
Mary flushed crimson, tears of emotion in her eyes. “Oh, Stefan, yes. I've known it for weeks; haven't you guessed?” Her arms reached to him blindly.