“I can note her ill qualities plainly enough, my lord,” cried Sir John, goaded now into open fury. “Where is she?” The Viscount picked up a pen and began cutting it; he eyed the inflamed countenance of his son with a cold amusement. “I observed her in here a little while ago,” he answered quietly. “She was engaged in sealing a letter—to Mr. Wharton.” “Tom Wharton!” cried Sir John. “Maybe she did not mention to you she had received a message from him—why should she? She knows you have not the friendship for Tom Wharton that she has—” “My lord,” said the Master of Stair, “forebear.” He was trembling in an agony of rage. He turned away. “Where are you going?” inquired his father. “To find her,” said Sir John. “You will, I think—in the drawing-room,” remarked the Viscount smiling. Without another word Sir John left the room. It was almost dark and the house held the dreariness of winter twilight; as the Master of Stair entered the drawing-room he was greeted with the faint soft light of candles, burning high up in their silver sconces against the white walls. It was a vast room furnished in pale tints, cold, with a look of desertion, opal-colored curtains shut out the evening, and the slender furniture cast faint reflections on the polished floor. On a little gold and cream-tinted couch by the fire sat Lady Dalrymple; in the dim light, with her delicate hued dress and her pale coloring, she looked like some dainty figure of wax, some doll set there to complete the picture, so quiet she was in her desolate splendor. On a small table beside her stood a bird-cage; she was bending toward it and in the hollow of her hand lay a little bullfinch; her full blue eyes gazed at it anxiously; it was sick and lay quite passively in her hand, its feathers forlornly rough. “Ah, don’t you die, too,” she whispered in a kind of horror. “Don’t you die, too.” Then she heard the door close and looking round across the pale room, saw her husband. Instantly she put the bird back in its cage, shut the door on it, and rose. “Ulrica,” said the Master of Stair, “I have something to ask of you.” He came across the room, and at sight of his face the color left her own; she slipped back onto the gold sofa and clasped her hands tightly. “What do you know of my affairs?” demanded Sir John. “I tell you nothing, but do you spy on me?” He clenched his hand over the gilding behind her, and she shrank together. “What do you mean?” she asked. “Why do you speak so to me?” “Because I desire an answer,” he said breathing hard. “I will give you none,” she replied in a trembling indignation. “This is my lord’s work—he has set you on me.” “You had better tell me before I discover for myself,” said her husband, his voice unsteady with suppressed passion. “Did you see that girl who came asking for me this afternoon?” She looked away, turning white, but there was that in her could disdain the lie fear prompted. “Yes,” she answered.