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Kate was paired with Haddington, and Mr. Morewood with Aunt Jane. The Bishop, of course, escorted the hostess. "And who," said he, almost as soon as he was comfortably settled to his soup, "is the young lady sitting by our friend the Father the one, I mean, with dark hair, not Miss Bernard? I know her." "That's Lady Claudia Territon," said Mrs. Lane.
"Life in the old dog yet, eh? But go in and see Lane. He's in the billiard-room, thinking over his sins and getting low-spirited." "And I shall be a change?" "I don't know about that. Perhaps he's a homoeopathist." "I hate you!" said Claudia, with a very kind glance, as she pursued her way in the direction indicated. "She means no harm," said Morewood. "But she may do the devil of a lot.
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."
We can't help it, can we?" "No not our business if we could," said Morewood. Claudia paused for a moment at the door. Eugene was still sitting with his head on his hand. "It's very odd," thought she. "What's he looking at the easel for? There's nothing on it!" Then she began to sing. Eugene looked up. "Is it you, Lady Claudia?" "Yes. Why are you moping here?" "Where's Stafford?"
Morewood might help her; he would at least understand something of how she felt, if she could summon up courage to talk to him; they were old friends. One afternoon Quisanté had been sitting with them on the lawn and, going off to walk with Dick, left them alone together.
"'Evil, be thou my good. Is that it?" "Yes, if you like. Why talk about it any more? It is done." He turned and walked away, leaving Morewood alone to finish his forgotten lunch. He could not get the thought of the man out of his mind all day. It was with him as he worked, and with him when he sat after dinner in the parlor of his little inn, with his pipe and whisky and water.
"Tell you what, Morewood, I'll lay you " "No, you won't. Come and see the picture. It's the finest thing in its way I ever did." "Going to exhibit it?" "I'm going to work up and exhibit another I've done of him, not this one; at least, I'm afraid he won't stand this one." "Gad! Have you painted him with horns and a tail?" Whereto Morewood answered only: "Come and see."
Ayre did not talk freely on the matter. He fenced with the idle inquiries of the Territon brothers; he calmed Mrs. Lane's solicitude with soothing words; he put Morewood off with a sneer at the transitoriness of love-affairs in general. To Eugene he spoke more openly, and did not hesitate to congratulate himself on the part he had taken in reconciling Stafford to life and work.
"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.
"How much better than working his head!" "And he'll be a bishop at least." "Is there anything worse?" growled Morewood disconsolately. Mrs. Baxter never became angry with him; she turned a fresh side of the petticoat, smiled sedately, and went on with her work. "We had whimsy-whamsies last night, hadn't we?" asked May. "I went to bed," said Morewood.
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