“We have a little question to submit to you, my dear fellow,” said Ayre blandly.

Eugene looked at him suspiciously.  He had been a good deal worried the last few days, and had a dim idea that he deserved it, which deprived him of the sense of unmerited suffering—­a most valuable consolation in time of trouble.

“It’s about Stafford.  You remember the head of him Morewood did, and the conclusion we drew from it—­or, rather, it forced upon us?”

Eugene nodded, instinctively assuming his most nonchalant air.

“We think he’s a bad case.  What think you?”

“I agree—­at least, I suppose I do.  I haven’t thought much about it.”

Ayre thought the indifference overdone, but he took no notice of it.

“We are inclined to think he ought to be shown that picture.  I am clear about it; Morewood doubts.  And we are going to refer it to you.”

“You’d better leave me out.”

“Not at all.  You’re a friend of his, known him all your life, and you’ll know best what will be for his good.”

“If you insist on asking me, I think you had better let it alone.”

“Wait a minute.  Why do you say that?”

“Because it will be a shock to him.”

“No doubt, at first.  He’s got some silly notion in his head about not marrying, and about its being sinful to fall in love, and all, that.”

“It won’t make him happier to be refused.”

Ayre leant forward in his chair, and said:  “How do you know she’ll refuse him?”

“I don’t know.  How should I know?”

“Do you think it likely?”

“Is that a fair question?” asked Morewood.

“Perfectly,” said Eugene, with an expressionless face.  “But it’s one I have no means of answering.”

“He’s plucky,” thought Ayre.  “Would you give the same answer you gave just now if you thought she’d take him?”

It was certainly hard on Eugene.  Was he bound, against even a tolerably strong feeling of his own, to give Stafford every chance?  It is not fair to a man to make him a judge where he is in truth a party.  Ayre had no mercy for him.

“For the sake of a trumpery pledge is he to throw away his own happiness—­and mark you, Lane, perhaps hers?”

Eugene did not wince.

“If there’s a chance of success, he ought to be given the opportunity of exercising his own judgment,” he said quietly.  “It would distress him immensely, but we should have no right to keep it from him.  And I suppose there’s always a chance of success.”

“Go and get the picture, Morewood,” said Sir Roderick.  Then, when the painter was looking in the portfolio, he said abruptly to Eugene: 

“You could say nothing else.”

“No.  That’s why you asked me, I suppose.  I hope I’m an interesting subject.  You dig pretty deep.”

“Serves you right!” said Ayre composedly.  “Why were you ever such an ass?”