's Stafford?" asked Ayre.

"In his room--at work, I suppose. He put off my sitting."

"Never mind Father Stafford," said Claudia decisively. "Who is going to
play tennis? I shall play with Sir Roderick."

"I'd much rather sit still in the shade," pleaded Sir Roderick.

"You're a very rude _old_ gentleman! But you must play, all the
same--against Bob and Mr. Morewood."

"Where do I come in?" asked Eugene. "Mayn't I do anything, Lady
Claudia?"

The others were looking after the net and the racquets, and Claudia was
left with him for a moment.

"Yes," she said; "you may go and sit on Kate's trunks till they lock."

"Wait a little while; I will be revenged on you. I want, though, to ask
you a question."

"Oh! Is it a question that no one else--say Kate, for instance--could
help you with?"

"It's not about myself."

"Is it about me?"

"Yes."

"What's the matter, Mr. Lane? Is it anything serious?"

"Very."

"Nonsense!" said Claudia. "You really mustn't do it, Mr. Lane, or I
can't stay for the cricket-match."

"We shall be desolate. Stafford's going in a few days."

But Claudia's face was entirely guileless as she replied:

"Is he? I'm so sorry! But he's looking much stronger, isn't he?"

With which she departed to join Sir Roderick, who had been spending the
interval in extracting from Morewood an account of Stafford's behavior.

"Hard hit, was he?" he concluded.

"He looked it."

"Wonder what he'll do! I'll give you five to four he asks her."

"Done!" said Morewood; "in fives."

CHAPTER VI.

Father Stafford Keeps Vigil.

Dinner that evening at the Manor was not a very brilliant affair.
Stafford did not appear, pleading that it was a Friday, and a strict
fast for him. Kate was distinctly out of temper, and treated the company
in general, and Eugene in particular, with frigidity. Everybody felt
that the situation was somewhat strained, and in consequence the
pleasant flow of personal talk that marks parties of friends was dried
up at its source. The discussion of general topics was found to be a
relief.

"The utter uselessness of such a class as Ayre represents," said
Morewood emphatically, taking up a conversation that had started no one
quite knew how, "must strike every sensible man."

"At least they buy pictures," said Eugene.

"On the contrary, they now sell old masters, and empty the pockets of
would-be buyers."

"They are very ornamental," remarked Claudia.

"In some ca