"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?"
"Yes. I ought to beg your pardon," and he looked up. Stafford was pale as death, and trembling.
"When?"