"By chance down here I met the parson. He is mad. He painted for me the passion of belief--which he said I hadn't and implied I couldn't feel. He threatened to paint the passion of love, with the same assertion and the same implication. He is convinced that if he breaks his vow (you remember it, of course) he'll be worse than Satan. Yet his face is set to break it. You probably can't help it, and wouldn't if you could, for you haven't heard him. He's going to London. Stop him if you can before he gets to Claudia Territon. I tell you his state of mind is hideous. "Yours, "A. MOREWOOD." This somewhat incoherent letter reached Sir Roderick Ayre as he passed through London, and tarried a day or two in early October. He opened it, read it, and put it down on the breakfast-table. Then he read it again, and ejaculated. "Talk about madness! Why, because Stafford's mad--if he is mad--must our friend the painter go mad too? Not that I see he is mad. He's only been stirring up old Morewood's dormant piety." He lit his cigar, and sat pondering the letter. "Shall I try to stop him? If Claudia and Eugene have fixed up things it would be charitable to prevent him making a fool of himself. Why the deuce haven't I heard anything from that young rascal? Hullo! who's that?" He heard a voice outside, and the next moment Eugene himself rushed in. "Here you are!" he said. "Thought I should find you. You can't keep away from this dirty old town." "Where do you spring from?" asked Ayre. "Liverpool. I found the Continent slow, so I went to America. Nothing moving there, so I came back here. Can you give me breakfast?" Ayre rang the bell, and ordered a new breakfast; as he did so he took up Morewood's letter and put it in his pocket. Eugene went on talking with gay affectation about his American experiences. Only when he was through his breakfast did he approach home topics. "Well, how's everybody?" Ayre waited for a more definite question. "Seen the Territons lately?" "Not very. Haven't you?" "No. They weren't over there, you know. Are they alive?" "My young friend, are you trying to deceive me? You have heard from at least one of them, if you haven't seen them?" "I haven't--not a line. We don't correspond: not _comme il faut_." "Oh, you haven't written to Claudia?" "Of course not." "Why not?" "Why should I?" "Let us go back to the previous question. Have you heard from Miss Bernard?" "Why probe my wounds? Not a single line." "Confound her impudence! she never wrote?" "I don't know why she should. But in case she ought, I'm bound to say she couldn't." "Why not? She said she would; she said so to me." "She couldn't have said so. You must have misunderstood her. I left no address, you know; and I had no difficulty in eluding interviewers--not being a prize-fighter or a minor poet." Sir Roderick smiled. "Gad! I never thought of that. She held me, after all."