"Mrs. Byrd, you will bear me out in this, I think. Your husband has
genius--that is beyond question--but he is unknown here as yet. Would it
not be a pity for him to be introduced to the American public through
these rather sinister drawings? We are not fond of the too frank critic
here, you know," he smiled, whimsically. "You may think me a Philistine,
Mr. Byrd," he continued, "but I have your welfare in mind. Win your
public first with smiles, and later they may perhaps accept chastisement
from you. If you have any drawings in a different vein I shall feel
honored in publishing them"--his tone was courteous--"if not, I should
suggest that you seek your first opening through the galleries rather
than the press. Whichever way you decide, if I can assist you at all by
furnishing introductions, I do hope you will call on me. Both for your
wife's sake and for your own, it would be a pleasure. And now"--gathering
up the drawings--"I must ask you both to excuse me, as I have a long
string of appointments. Mrs. Byrd, I will write you our offer for the
verses. I don't know about the illustrations; you must consult your
husband." They found themselves at the door bidding him goodbye: Mary
with a sense of disappointment mingled with comprehension; Stefan not
knowing whether the more to deplore what he considered Farraday's
Philistinism, or to admire his critical acumen.
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