In the extreme end of it Morewood had extemporized a studio, attracted by the good light.
"Give me a good top-light," he had said, "and I wouldn't change places with an arch-angel!" "Your lights, top or otherwise, are not such," Eugene remarked, "as to make it likely the berth will be offered you." "This picture is, I understand, Eugene, a stunner.

Give us chairs and some brandy and soda and trot it out," said Ayre.
Morewood was unmoved by their frivolity.

He tugged at his ragged red beard for a moment or two while they were settling themselves.
"I'll show you this first," he said, taking up one of the canvases that leant against the wall.
It was a beautiful sketch of a half-length figure, and represented Stafford in the garb of a monk, gazing up with eager eyes, full of the vision of the Eternal City beyond the skies.

It was the face of a devotee and a visionary, and yet it was full of strength and resolution; and there was in it the look of a man who had put aside all except the service and the contemplation of the Divine.
Ayre forgot to sneer, and Eugene murmured: "Glorious! What a subject! And, old fellow, what an artist!" "That is good," said Morewood quietly.

"It's fine, but as a matter of painting the other is still better.