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

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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."




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