But they had their three days more, in the golden light of the Indian
summer. Three more swims, in which Stefan could barely join for joy of
watching her long lines cutting the water in her close English bathing
dress. Three more evening walks along the shimmering sands. Three more
nights in their moon-haunted room within sound of the slow splash of the
waves. And, poignant with the sadness of a nearing change, these days
were to Mary the most exquisite of all.

Their journey to the city, on the little, gritty, perpetually stopping
train was made jocund by the lively anticipations of Stefan, who was in a
mood of high confidence.

They had decided from the first to try their fortunes in New York that
winter; not to return to Paris till they had established a sure market
for Stefan's work. He had halcyon plans. Masterpieces were to be painted
under the inspiration of Mary's presence. His success in the Beaux Arts
would be an Open Sesame to the dealers, and they would at once become
prosperous,--for he had the exaggerated continental idea of American
prices. In the spring they would return to Paris, so that Mary should see
it first at its most beautiful. There they would have a studio, making it
their center, but they would also travel.

"Spain, Italy, Greece, Mary--we will see all the world's masterpieces
together," he jubilated. "You shall be my wander-bride." And he sang her
little snatches of gay song, in French and Italian, thrumming an
imaginary guitar or making castanets of his fingers.

"I will paint you on the Acropolis, Mary, a new Pallas to guard the
Parthenon." His imagination leapt from vista to vista of the future, each
opening to new delights. Mary's followed, lured, dazzled, a little