It was merely a head--nothing more--standing out boldly from a dark
background. The face was again Stafford's, but the presentment differed
strangely. It was still beautiful; it had even a beauty the other had
not, the beauty of youth and passion. The devotee was gone; in his place
was a face that, in spite of the ascetic cast of feature, was so lighted
up with the fire of love and longing that it might have stood for a
Leander or a Romeo. It expressed an eager yearning, that made it seem to
be craning out of the picture in the effort to reach that unknown object
on which the eyes were fixed with such devouring passion.

The men sat looking at it in amazement. Eugene was half angry, half
alarmed. Ayre was closely studying the picture, his old look of cynical
amusement struggling with a surprise which it was against his profession
to admit. They forgot to praise the picture; but Morewood was well
content with their tacit homage.

"The finest thing I ever did--on my life; one of the finest things any
one ever did," he murmured; "and I can't show it!"

"No," said Eugene.

Ayre rose and took his stand before the picture. Then he got a chair,
choosing the lowest he could find, and sat down, sitting well back.
This attitude brought him exactly under the gaze of the eyes.

"Is it your diabolic fancy," he said, "or did you honestly copy it?"

"I never struck closer to what I saw," the painter replied. "It's not my
doing; he looked like that."