“Madam,” he fairly scowled, “it is as easy for the rich to enter the kingdom of Art as for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle.” Leaving her pink with offense, he turned his back and, shaking off other would-be admirers, sought his hostess.
“My God, I can't stand any more of this—I'm off,” he confided to her. Constance was beginning to know her man. She gave him a quick scrutiny. “Yes, I think you'd better be,” she agreed, “before you spoil any of my good work. An absent lion is better than a snarling one. Run home to Mary.” She dismissed him laughingly, and Stefan catapulted himself out of the house, thereby missing the attractive Miss Berber by a few minutes. Dashing home across the Square, he flung himself on the divan with every appearance of exhaustion. “Sing to me, Mary,” he implored.
“Why, Stefan,” she asked, startled, “wasn't it a success? What's the matter?”
“Success!” he scoffed. “Oh, yes. They all gushed and gurgled and squeaked and squalled. Horrible! Sing, dearest; I must hear something beautiful.”
Failing to extract more from him, she complied.
The next day brought a full account of his success from Constance, and glowing tributes from the papers. The head-lines ranged from “Suffragettes Unearth New Genius” to “Distinguished Exhibit at Home of Theodore M. Elliot.” The verdict was unanimous. A new star had risen in the artistic firmament. One look at the headings, and Stefan dropped the papers in disgust, but Mary pored over them all, and found him quite willing to listen while she read eulogistic extracts aloud.
Thus started, the fuse of publicity burnt brightly. Constance's carefully planned follow-up articles appeared, and reporters besieged the Byrds' studio. Unfortunately for Mary, these gentry soon discovered that she was the Danaë's original, which fact created a mild succès de scandale. Personal paragraphs appeared about her and her writing, and, greatly embarrassed, she disconnected the door-bell for over a week. But the picture was all the more talked about. In a week Constantine had it on exhibition; in three, he had sold it for five thousand dollars to a tobacco millionaire.
“Mary,” groaned Stefan when he heard the news, “we have given in to Mammon. We are capitalists.”
“Oh, dear, think of our beautiful picture going to some odious nouveau riche!” Mary sighed. But she was immeasurably relieved that Stefan's name was made, and that they were permanently lifted from the ranks of the needy.
That very day, as if to illustrate their change of status, Mrs. Corriani puffed up the stairs with the news that the flat immediately below them had been abandoned over night. The tenants, a dark couple of questionable habits and nationality, had omitted the formality of paying their rent—the flat was on the market. The outcome was that Stefan and Mary, keeping their studio as a workshop, overflowed into the flat beneath, and found themselves in possession of a bed and bathroom, a kitchen and maid's room, and a sitting room. These they determined to furnish gradually, and Mary looked forward to blissful mornings at antique stores and auctions. She had been brought up amidst the Chippendale, old oak, and brasses of a cathedral close, and new furniture was anathema to her. A telephone and a colored maid-servant were installed. Their picnicking days were over.