“A sort of perpetual dove on Ararat?”

“My dear Morewood, I am told you know everything except the Bible.  Why choose your allusions from the one unfamiliar source?”

“And how do you like your new neighbor?”

“What new neighbor?”

“Intellect.”

“Oh! well, as personified in you it’s a not unwholesome astringent.  But we may take an overdose.”

“Depends on the capacity of the constitution, of course,” said Morewood.

“One objectionable quality it has,” pursued Sir Roderick, apparently unheedful.

“Yes?”

“A disposition toward what boys call ‘scoring.’  That will, no doubt, be eradicated as it rises more in society. Apropos, what are you doing down here?”

“As an artist, I study your insolence professionally, Ayre, and it doesn’t annoy me.  I came down here to do nothing.  I have stayed to paint Stafford.”

“Ah! is Stafford then a professional saint?”

“He’s an uncommon fine fellow.  You’re not fit to black his boots.”

“I am not fit to black anybody’s boots,” responded Sir Roderick.  “It’s the other way.  What’s he doing down here?”

“I don’t know.  Says he’s writing a book.  Do you know Lady Claudia well?”

“Yes.  Known her since she was a child.”

“She seems uncommonly appreciative.”

“Of Stafford?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, well! it’s her way.  It always has been the way of the Territons.  They only began, you know, about three hundred years ago, and ever since—­”

“Oh, I don’t want their history—­a lot of scoundrels, no doubt, like all your old families.  Only—­I say, Ayre, I should like to show you a head of Stafford I’ve done.”

“I won’t buy it!” said Sir Roderick, with affected trepidation.

“You be damned!” said Morewood.  “But I should like to hear what you think of it.”

“What do he and the rest of them think?”

“I haven’t shown it to any one.”

“Why not?”

“Wait till you’ve seen it.”

“I should think Stafford would make rather a good head.  He’s got just that—­”

“Hush!  Here he comes!”

As he spoke, Stafford and Claudia came up the drive and emerged on to the lawn.  They did not see the others and appeared to be deep in conversation.  Stafford was talking vehemently and Claudia listening with a look of amused mutiny on her face.

“He’s sworn off, hasn’t he?” asked Ayre.

“Yes.”

“She doesn’t care for him?”

“I don’t think so; but a man can’t tell.”

“Nonsense!” said Ayre.  “What’s Eugene up to?”

“Oh, you know he’s booked.”

“Kate Bernard?”

“Yes.”

“Tell you what, Morewood, I’ll lay you—­”

“No, you won’t.  Come and see the picture.  It’s the finest thing—­in its way—­I ever did.”

“Going to exhibit it?”