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?"

"God knows!" groaned Eugene.

Morewood returned.

"He's due here in ten minutes to sit to me. Are you going to stay?"

"No. You be doing something else, and let that thing stand on the
easel."

"Pleasant for me, isn't it?" asked Morewood.

"Are you ashamed of yourself for snatching it?"

"Not a bit."

"All right, then; what's the matter? Come along, Eugene. After all, you
know you'll like showing it. For an outsider, like yourself, it's
really a deuced clever little bit. Perhaps they will make you an
Associate if Stafford will let you show it."

Morewood ignored the taunt, and sat down by the window on pretense of
touching up a sketch. He had not been there long when he heard Stafford
come in, and became conscious that he had caught sight of the picture.
He did not look up, and heard no sound. A long pause followed. Then he
felt a strong grip on his shoulder, and Stafford whispered:

"It is my face?"

"You see it is."

"You did it?"

"Yes. I ought to beg your pardon," and he looked up. Stafford was pale
as death, and trembling.

"When?"

"A few days ago."

"On your oath--no, you don't b