The devotee was gone; in his place was a face that, in spite of the ascetic cast of feature, was so lighted up with the fire of love and longing that it might have stood for a Leander or a Romeo.

It expressed an eager yearning, that made it seem to be craning out of the picture in the effort to reach that unknown object on which the eyes were fixed with such devouring passion.
The men sat looking at it in amazement.

Eugene was half angry, half alarmed.

Ayre was closely studying the picture, his old look of cynical amusement struggling with a surprise which it was against his profession to admit.

They forgot to praise the picture; but Morewood was well content with their tacit homage.
"The finest thing I ever did--on my life; one of the finest things any one ever did," he murmured; "and I can't show it!" "No," said Eugene.
Ayre rose and took his stand before the picture.