Stafford drew at his pipe grimly and said nothing, and Howard went on
in the gentle monotone characteristic of him: "By the way, the mysterious and proverbial little bird has whispered to
me that Sir Stephen will not be Sir Stephen much longer. In fact, that
they are going to make a peer of him very shortly. And upon my word,
they couldn't find a better man for the place; for, unlike some noble
lords you and I could mention, Staff, he will wear his robes and
coronet--do they ever wear them now--right nobly; and for once the
House of Lords will get a man who knows his own mind, knows what he
wants and the way to get it. And if you won't take offence, Staff, and
throw things at me, I should like to remark that his son will prove a
worthy successor. Can you fancy yourself in a peer's robe with a
velvet-lined coronet, Staff?"
Stafford grunted for reply, and there was silence for a minute, during
which Howard turned over the pages of one of the illustrated weeklies
which lay on the table, and suddenly he looked up and exclaimed: "Have you seen this?"
Stafford shook his head.
"I mean this portrait of Miss Falconer," said Howard, in a low voice.
"It is wonderfully good," he went on, as he contemplated the
full-length picture; "wonderfully like her."
He handed the paper across and Stafford looked at it. It was an
admirable reproduction of a photograph of Maude in evening-dress, and
made a truly splendid picture; and looking at it, one felt instantly
how well a coronet, even a ducal one, would fit those level brows,
beneath which the eyes looked out upon the world with a scarcely masked
_hauteur_ and disdain. A man might well be proud of such a woman for
his future wife; but there was no pride in Stafford's face as his eyes
dwelt moodily on the almost perfect face, the tall, _svelt_ figure in
its long-trained robe. The splendour of her beauty oppressed him with a
sense of shame; and with an involuntary exclamation, which sounded
something like a groan, he let the paper slip from his hand, and
drooped still lower in his chair. The sight of him was more than Howard
could bear in silence, and he rose and laid a hand upon Stafford's
shoulder.
"What's wrong, old man?" he enquired in a very low voice. "You are out
of sorts; you've been off colour for some time past. Of course, I've
noticed it. I've seen the look you wear on your face now come over it
at moments when you ought to have been at your best and brightest. I've
seen a look in your eyes when your lips have been smiling that has made
me--uncomfortable. In short, Staff, you are getting on my nerves, and
although I know it's like my cheek to mention the matter, and that
you'll probably curse my impudence, I really should be grateful if
you'd tell me what ails you, still more grateful of you'd let me help
you to get rid of it. I know I'm an interfering idiot, but I'm fool
enough to be fond of you--it's about the only weakness I've got, and I
am ashamed of it--but there it is."