"I don't know that I shall show it to Lane."

"Oh, get out!" said Eugene. "I shall summon the servants to my aid.
Who's it of?"

"Stafford," said Ayre.

"The Pope in full canonicals?"

"All right, Lane. But you're a friend of his, and you mayn't like it."

They entered the billiard-room, a long building that ran out from the
west wing of the house. In the extreme end of it Morewood had
extemporized a studio, attracted by the good light.

"Give me a good top-light," he had said, "and I wouldn't change places
with an arch-angel!"

"Your lights, top or otherwise, are not such," Eugene remarked, "as to
make it likely the berth will be offered you."

"This picture is, I understand, Eugene, a stunner. Give us chairs and
some brandy and soda and trot it out," said Ayre.

Morewood was unmoved by their frivolity. He tugged at his ragged red
beard for a moment or two while they were settling themselves.

"I'll show you this first," he said, taking up one of the canvases that
leant against the wall.