This year it so chanced that he chose the wilds of Exmoor for the scene of his outrages.  He settled down in a small inn and plied his brush busily.  Of course he did not paint anything that the ordinary person cared to see, or in the way in which it would appear to such person.  But he was greatly pleased with his work; and one day, as he threw himself down on a bank at noon and got out his bread and cheese, he was so carried away, being by nature a conceited man, as to exclaim: 

“My head of Stafford was the best head done these hundred years; and that’s the best bit of background done these hundred and fifty!”

The frame of the phrase seemed familiar to him as he uttered it, and he had just succeeded in tracing it back to the putative parentage of Lord Verulam, when, to his great astonishment, he heard Stafford’s voice from the top of the bank, saying: 

“As I am in your mind already, Mr. Morewood, I feel my bodily appearance less of an intrusion on your solitude.”

“Why, how in the world did you come here?”

The spot was within ten miles of the Retreat, and part of Stafford’s treatment for himself consisted of long walks; but he only replied: 

“I am staying near here.”

“For health, eh?”

“Yes—­for health.”

“Well, I’m glad to see you.  How are you?  You don’t look very first-class.”

Stafford came down the bank without replying, and sat down.  He was, in spite of it being the country and very hot, dressed in his usual black, and looked paler and thinner than ever.

“Have some lunch?”

Stafford smiled.

“There’s only enough for one,” he said.

“Nonsense, man!”

“No, really; I never take it.”

A pause ensued.  Stafford seemed to be thinking, while Morewood was undoubtedly eating.  Presently, however, the latter said: 

“You left us rather suddenly at Millstead.”

“Yes.”

“Sent for?”

“You of all men know why I went, Mr. Morewood.”

“If you don’t mind my admitting it, I do.  But most people are so thin-skinned.”

“I am not thin-skinned—­not in that way.  Of course you know.  You told me.”

“That head?”

“Yes; you did me a service.”

“Well, I think I did, and I’m glad to hear you say so.”

“Why?”

“Shows you’ve come to your senses,” said Morewood, rapidly recovering from his lapse into civility.

Stafford seemed willing, even anxious, to pursue the subject.  The regimen at the Retreat was no doubt severe.

“What do you mean by coming to my senses?”

“Why, doing what any man does when he finds he’s in love—­barring a sound reason against it.”

“And that is?”

“Try his luck.  You needn’t look at me.  I’ve tried my luck before now, and it was damned bad luck.  So here I am, a musty old curmudgeon; and there’s Ayre, a snarling old cur!”