During the morning a great sheaf of roses came for Mary with the card of James Farraday, and on its heels a bush of white heather inscribed to them both from McEwan. The postman contributed several cards, and a tiny string of pink coral from Miss Mason. “How kind every one is!” Mary cried happily.
In the afternoon the Corrianis were summoned. Mary had small presents for them and a glass of wine, which Stefan poured to the accompaniment of a song in his best Italian. This melted the somewhat sulky Corriani to smiles, and his wife to tears. The day closed with dinner at their beloved French hotel, and a bottle of Burgundy shared with Stefan's favorite waiters.
XI
During Christmas week Stefan worked hard at his interior, but about the fifth day began to show signs of restlessness. The following morning, after only half an hour's painting, he threw down his brush.
“It's no use, Mary,” he announced, “I don't think I shall ever be able to do this kind of work; it simply doesn't inspire me.”
She looked up from her sewing. “Why, I thought it promised charmingly.”
“That's just it.” He ruffled his hair irritably. “It does. Can you imagine my doing anything 'charming'? No, the only hope for this interior is for me to get depth into it, and depth won't come—it's facile.” And he stared disgustedly at the canvas.
“I think I know what you mean,” Mary answered absently. She was thinking that his work had power and height, but that depth she had never seen in it.