He handed the paper across and Stafford looked at it.  It was an admirable reproduction of a photograph of Maude in evening-dress, and made a truly splendid picture; and looking at it, one felt instantly how well a coronet, even a ducal one, would fit those level brows, beneath which the eyes looked out upon the world with a scarcely masked hauteur and disdain.  A man might well be proud of such a woman for his future wife; but there was no pride in Stafford’s face as his eyes dwelt moodily on the almost perfect face, the tall, svelt figure in its long-trained robe.  The splendour of her beauty oppressed him with a sense of shame; and with an involuntary exclamation, which sounded something like a groan, he let the paper slip from his hand, and drooped still lower in his chair.  The sight of him was more than Howard could bear in silence, and he rose and laid a hand upon Stafford’s shoulder.

“What’s wrong, old man?” he enquired in a very low voice.  “You are out of sorts; you’ve been off colour for some time past.  Of course, I’ve noticed it.  I’ve seen the look you wear on your face now come over it at moments when you ought to have been at your best and brightest.  I’ve seen a look in your eyes when your lips have been smiling that has made me—­uncomfortable.  In short, Staff, you are getting on my nerves, and although I know it’s like my cheek to mention the matter, and that you’ll probably curse my impudence, I really should be grateful if you’d tell me what ails you, still more grateful of you’d let me help you to get rid of it.  I know I’m an interfering idiot, but I’m fool enough to be fond of you—­it’s about the only weakness I’ve got, and I am ashamed of it—­but there it is.”

He laughed with a touch of self-contempt, with an attempt at his old cynicism; but Stafford understood the fictitious character of the laugh, and as he leant his chin in his hand, he gave a short nod of acknowledgment.

“Howard, do you remember that time when you and I were at Palmero?” he said, in a low voice, and as if he were communing with himself rather than answering his friend.  “Do you remember that Italian we met there; the man who seemed so gay and careless, the man who seemed to have everything a fellow could desire, and to be the embodiment of prosperity and success?  Do you remember how once or twice you and I saw a strange look on his face, perhaps while he was at dinner or fooling with the women in the salon—­a look as if he had suddenly remembered something, as if something had flashed upon his mind in the midst of the laughter and music and brought him face to face with hell?  You pointed him out to me one night; and we wondered what was the matter with him—­until he fell off his horse that day you and I were riding with him?  Do you remember how, when we had unbuttoned his riding-shirt, we found the ‘D’ that had been branded on his chest?  We knew then what was the matter with him.  He had been a deserter.  The pain