The narrow box-edged paths radiated round a central fountain full of gold carp; a stone figure of Hylas rose from the water-lilies and poured water from a Grecian urn, splashing into the basin. Trees of box and yew cut into the shapes of peacocks and Chinese pagodas framed the dark background to innumerable roses, hollyhocks and bushes of sweet-brier. Leading to a back entrance to the house was a wide flight of steps ending in a terrace, the balustrade being white with jasmine. Steadily up and down the smooth paths walked Lord Stair, his shadow now before, now behind him. On the edge of the fountain sat Lady Stair, feeding the carp with cake. Her wide straw hat tied with black velvet under her round chin threw half her face into transparent shadow; her stiff blue lutestring dress embroidered with silver stars, spread over the dark green grass and glimmered in the sunlight. Faint clouds floated across the pearly sky and lay reflected among the water-lilies; the gold fish darted through the leaves like jewels and from the urn held by Hylas, sparkled the clear stream of water. It was perfectly still, far-removed from the noises of the city; now and then a little breeze rose stirring the perfume from the roses and gently bending the hollyhocks. Lord Stair stopped at last in his pacing to and fro, stopped so close to his wife that his shadow fell over her and the fountain brim. She looked up, then down again at the water. “I think my ruin is assured,” said Lord Stair in a hard voice. “You have no trust in the King?” she asked quietly. He answered in a proud bitterness: “The King! He has not shown himself strong enough to withstand a faction—he, the same as the others, will cast the odium on me.” Lady Stair again looked up. “What do you mean by ruin?” she asked steadily. “That, madam, is within the King’s pleasure. To save himself he will show me the greater severity. You understand? I am to be the victim flung to the rage of a party—the clamor of a faction.” He paused a second, gazing over her head, then he struck his hand down on his sword-hilt. “It is hardly credible!” he said. “If what they say is true, it is well-deserved,” said Lady Stair evenly. “To your face, my lord, I say it; it is well-deserved.” He glanced at her curiously. “Ah—you think so?” he said in a contained voice. “You would give me no denial,” she answered. “I think what I must think—I conclude what your silence causes me to conclude.” “It is a matter of no moment,” said Lord Stair. “Perhaps—” and he smiled unpleasantly, “it is as well that my downfall will at least give no one pain.” “Perhaps it is as well,” she assented coldly. Her ringed hand stirred through the fountain and the water-lilies trembled at her touch; a low passing cloud cast a shadow over the grass. Lord Stair stood silent with a hard and angry face; his wife spoke again. “Yet I ask you, my lord, what you mean by ruin?” “Are there, madam, so many forms of it?”