“I say, Morewood,” said Ayre, breaking in on the discourse, “do you think it’s fair to keep that fellow Stafford in the dark?”

“Is he in the dark?”

“It’s a queer thing, but he is.  I never knew a man who was in love before without knowing it,—­they say women are that way,—­but then I never met a ‘Father’ before.”

“What do you propose, since you insist on gossiping?”

“It isn’t gossip; it’s Christian feeling.  Some one ought to tell the poor beggar.”

“Perhaps you’d like to.”

“I should, but it would seem like a liberty, and I never take liberties.  You do constantly, so you might as well take this one.”

“I like that!  Why, the man’s a stranger!  If he ought to be told at all, Lane’s the man to do it.”

“Yes, but you see, Lane—­”

“That’s quite true; I forgot.  But isn’t he better left alone to get over it?”

Sir Roderick, unprejudiced, might have conceded the point.  But the prompter intervened.

“What I’m thinking about is this:  is it fair to her?  I don’t say she’s in love with him, but she admires him immensely.  They’re always together, and—­well, it’s plain what’s likely enough to happen.  If it does, what will be said?  Who’ll believe he did it unconsciously?  And if he breaks her heart, how is it better because he did it unconsciously?”

“You are unusually benevolent,” said Morewood dryly.

“Hang it! a man has some feelings.”

“You’re a humbug, Ayre!”

“Never mind what I am.  You won’t tell him?”

“No.”

“It would be a very interesting problem.”

“It would.”

“That vow of his is all nonsense, ain’t it?”

“Utter nonsense!”

“Why shouldn’t he have his chance of being happy in a reasonable way?  I shouldn’t wonder if she took him.”

“No more should I.”

“Upon my soul, I believe it’s a duty!  I say, Morewood, do you think he’d see it for himself from the picture?”

“Of course he would.  No one could help it.”

“Will you let him see it?”

Morewood took a turn or two up and down, tugging his beard.  The issue was doubtful.  A certain auditor of the conversation, perceiving this, hastily transferred himself from one interlocutor to the other.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do:  I’ll let him see it if Lane agrees.  I’ll leave it to Lane.”

“Rather rough on Lane, isn’t it?”

“A little strong emotion of any kind won’t do Lane any harm.”

“Perhaps not.  We will train our young friend’s mind to cope with moral problems.  He’ll never get on in the world nowadays unless he can do that.  It’s now part of a gentleman’s—­still more of a lady’s—­education.”

Eugene was clearly wanted.  By some agency, into which it is needless to inquire, though we may have suspicions, at that moment Eugene strolled into the billiard-room.