"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.