"Will you let him see it?"
Morewood took a turn or two up and down, tugging his beard. The issue was doubtful. A certain auditor of the conversation, perceiving this, hastily transferred himself from one interlocutor to the other.
"I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll let him see it if Lane agrees. I'll leave it to Lane."
"Rather rough on Lane, isn't it?"
"A little strong emotion of any kind won't do Lane any harm."
"Perhaps not. We will train our young friend's mind to cope with moral problems. He'll never get on in the world nowadays unless he can do that. It's now part of a gentleman's—still more of a lady's—education."
Eugene was clearly wanted. By some agency, into which it is needless to inquire, though we may have suspicions, at that moment Eugene strolled into the billiard-room.
"We have a little question to submit to you, my dear fellow," said Ayre blandly.
Eugene looked at him suspiciously. He had been a good deal worried the last few days, and had a dim idea that he deserved it, which deprived him of the sense of unmerited suffering—a most valuable consolation in time of trouble.
"It's about Stafford. You remember the head of him Morewood did, and the conclusion we drew from it—or, rather, it forced upon us?"