Morewood’s face was a study.

“I would as soon,” he said deliberately, “cut off my right hand.”

“I’ll give you a thousand pounds for it,” said Eugene.

“What would you do with it?”

“Burn it.”

“Then you shouldn’t have it for ten thousand.”

“I thought you’d say that.  But he mustn’t see it.”

“Why, Lane, you’re as bad as a child.  It’s a man in love, that’s all.”

“If he saw it,” said Eugene, “he’d hang himself.”

“Oh, gently!” said Ayre.  “If you ask me, I expect Stafford will pretty soon get beyond any surprise at the revelation.  He must walk his path, like all of us.  It can’t matter to you, you know,” he added, with a sharp glance.

“No, it can’t matter to me,” said Eugene steadily.

“Put it away, Morewood, and come out of doors.  Perhaps you’d better not leave it about, at present at any rate.”

Morewood took down the picture and placed it in a large portfolio, which he locked, and accompanied Ayre.  Eugene made no motion to come with them, and they left him sitting there.

“The atmosphere,” said Sir Roderick, looking up into the clear summer sky, “is getting thundery and complicated.  I hate complications!  They’re a bore!  I think I shall go.”

“I shan’t.  It will be interesting.”

“Perhaps you’re right.  I’ll stay a little while.”

“Ah! here you are.  I’ve been looking for somebody to amuse me.”

The speaker was Claudia, looking very fresh and cool in her soft white dress.

“What have you done with the Pope?” asked Ayre.

“He gave me to understand he had wasted enough time on me, and went in to write.”

“I should think he was right,” said Sir Roderick.

“I dare say,” said Claudia carelessly.

Her conscience was evidently quite at ease; but they did not know whether this meant that her actions had deserved no blame.  However, they were neither of them men to judge such a case as hers harshly.

“If I were fifteen years younger,” said Ayre, “I would waste all my time on you.”

“Why, you’re only about forty,” said Claudia.  “That’s not too old.”

“Good!” said he, smiling.  “Life in the old dog yet, eh?  But go in and see Lane.  He’s in the billiard-room, thinking over his sins and getting low-spirited.”

“And I shall be a change?”

“I don’t know about that.  Perhaps he’s a homoeopathist.”

“I hate you!” said Claudia, with a very kind glance, as she pursued her way in the direction indicated.

“She means no harm,” said Morewood.

“But she may do the devil of a lot.  We can’t help it, can we?”

“No—­not our business if we could,” said Morewood.

Claudia paused for a moment at the door.  Eugene was still sitting with his head on his hand.

“It’s very odd,” thought she.  “What’s he looking at the easel for?  There’s nothing on it!”