He wore his own fair hair frizzed and curled out on to his shoulders and brought very low on to his forehead; under his chin was a knot of black satin that accentuated the pale delicacy of his complexion; every detail of his attire showed the same regard to his appearance and the mode. Had it not been for that unconscious look of mastery in the calm face he would have seemed no more than a wealthy man of fashion. In his beautifully formed and white hands he held, as well as the rose, a handkerchief that he now and then pressed to his lips; in great contrast to the other man, who appeared self-absorbed and natural, his movements and his pose were extremely affected. A pause of silence wore out; the man at the window beat his fingers impatiently on the high walnut back of the chair beside him, then suddenly turned a frowning face towards the darkening room. "My lord, what doth this presage?" He asked the question heavily and as if he had much confidence and trust in the man to whom he spoke. My lord answered instantly, in a voice as artificial as the fastidious appointments of his dress. "Nothing that Your Majesty’s wisdom and the devotion of your servants cannot control and dispel." James Stewart turned his eyes again to the open casement. "Do you take it so lightly, my lord?" he asked uneasily. "All London shouting for these disloyal prelates—the city against me?" Lord Sunderland replied, his peculiarly soothing tones lowered to a kind of caressing gentleness, while he kept his eyes fixed on the King. "Not the city, sir. Your Majesty heareth but the mobile—the handful that will always rejoice at a set given to authority. The people love Your Majesty and applaud your measures." "But I am not popular as my brother was," said the King, but half satisfied, and with an angry look towards London. The Earl was ready with his softly worded reassurances. "His late Majesty never put his popularity to the test—I think he could not have done what you have, sir—is not the true Faith"—here my lord crossed himself—"predominant in England—hath Your Majesty any Protestant left in office—have you not an Ambassador at the Vatican, is not a holy Jesuit father on the Council board, Mass heard publicly in Whitehall—the papal Nuncio openly received?—and hath not Your Majesty done these great things in three short years?" A glow overspread the King’s sombre face; he muttered a few words of a Latin prayer, and bent his head. "I have done a little," he said—"a little——" Sunderland lowered his eyes. "Seeing this is a Protestant nation, Your Majesty hath done a deal." The King was silent a moment, then spoke, gloomy again.