“Those are two beautiful pictures,” said Kenelm; “but we must have variety. The next should be full of figures. What is it? A scene from ‘Henry VIII.’” It was a simple little scene that Lady Hermione had read in some historical novel: Queen Anne Boleyn, dressed for some grand court ceremonial, was seated in an armchair waiting while a white ostrich plume was fastened in her dress. Her beautiful maid of honor, Jane Seymour, was standing behind the chair. The king, waiting half impatiently, half admiringly, for the queen, stood watching the little group. The attendant sewing on the plume let it fall. Jane Seymour raised it from the ground. Bluff Henry said with a smile: “Never mind; keep it for your own adornment, Lady Jane.” It was then, and for the first time, that the unhappy Anne Boleyn suspected the love of her false lord had left her. There was some discussion as to how the different characters should be distributed. Sir Ronald was to be King Henry. “Clarice,” said Lady Hermione, “you will make a better queen than I can. I will be Jane Seymour.” She went away then to attend to some one who was seeking a costume, and Clarice raised her eyes to Sir Ronald’s face. “I would so much rather take the part of Jane Seymour myself.” “Why?” he asked. “Because I have been thinking over the scene and I am quite sure the king loved Jane best.” Then she suddenly remembered all that her words implied and her beautiful face flushed crimson, her eyes drooped, her white hands clasped each other nervously. But Sir Ronald was too deeply in love to even draw the very palpable inference. “If you prefer the part, you must have it,” he said, and that picture was, perhaps, more loudly applauded than any other. Sir Ronald, dressed in the rich costume of King Henry, looked superbly handsome. Lady Hermione, as Queen Anne, was beautiful, even with that expression of sudden, keen, unutterable pain on her face. Jane Seymour was more lovely still, for the king’s bold, admiring glance caused a sudden flush of joy in her face, as she looked proud to receive it, yet half afraid the queen might resent it. “I know you do not care for tragedy, Lady Hermione,” said Sir Ronald; “but I entreat you just for once to lay aside your prejudice. There is a picture in our gallery at Aldenmere that would make a splendid sequel to this--Anne Boleyn the night before her execution--a queen no longer, but a despairing, unhappy woman. It is the very sublimity of woe. Will you try it?” She would have tried anything he asked her. Sir Ronald gave her every detail of the picture, and many people pronounced it the gem of the night.