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?"