event Eugene being very bored. He was growing from day to
day less patient of Claudia's invisibility, and he expressed his feeling
very plainly one day to Rickmansworth, whom he happened to encounter in
the outer lobby, as the noble lord was finding his way to the unwonted
haunt of the House of Lords, thereto attracted by a debate on the proper
precautions it behooved the nation to take against pleuro-pneumonia.

"Surprising," he said, "what interesting subjects the old buffers get
hold of now and then! Come and hear 'em, old man."

"The Lord forbid!" said Eugene. "But I want to say a word to you, Rick,
about Claudia. I can't stand this much longer."

"I wouldn't," said Rickmansworth, "if I were you; but it isn't my
fault."

"It's absurd treating me like this because of Stafford's affair."

"Well, why don't you go and call in Grosvenor Square? She's there with
Aunt Julia."

"I will. Do you think she'll see me?"

"My dear fellow, I don't know; only if I wanted to see a girl, I bet
she'd see me."

Eugene smiled at his friend's indomitable self-confidence, and let him
fly to the arms of pleuro-pneumonia. He then dispensed with his own
presence in his branch of the Legislature, and took his way toward
Grosvenor Square, where Lord Rickmansworth's town house was.

Lady Claudia was not at home. She had gone with her aunt earlier in the
day to give Mr. Morewood a sitting. Mr. Morewood was painting her
portrait.

"I expect they've stayed to tea. I haven't seen old Morewood for no end
of a time. Gad! I'll go to tea."

And he got into a hansom and went, wondering with some amusement how
Claudia had persuaded Morewood to paint her. It turned out, however,
that the transaction was of a purely commercial character.
Rickmansworth, having been very successful at the race-meeting above
referred to, had been minded to give his sister a present, and she had
chosen her own head on a canvas. The price offered was such that
Morewood could not refuse; but he had in the course of the sitting
greatly annoyed Claudia by mentioning incidentally that her face did not
interest him and was, in fact, such a face as he would never have
painted but for the pressure of penury.

"Why doesn't it interest you?" asked she, in pardonable irritation.

"I don't know. It's--but I dare say it's my fault," he replied, in that
tone which clearly implies the opposite of what is asserted.

"It must be, I think," said Claudia gently. "You see, it int