Two hanging lamps with crimson shades threw a rosy light over the table, where, in the centre stood a silver basket, full of irises. Through the open windows the garden was all clusters of black foliage in the dying light. Moths fluttered round the lamps; Greta, following them with her eyes, gave quite audible sighs of pleasure when they escaped. Both girls wore white, and Harz, who sat opposite Christian, kept looking at her, and wondering why he had not painted her in that dress. Mrs. Decie understood the art of dining—the dinner, ordered by Herr Paul, was admirable; the servants silent as their shadows; there was always a hum of conversation. Sarelli, who sat on her right hand, seemed to partake of little except olives, which he dipped into a glass of sherry. He turned his black, solemn eyes silently from face to face, now and then asking the meaning of an English word. After a discussion on modern Rome, it was debated whether or no a criminal could be told by the expression of his face. “Crime,” said Mrs. Decie, passing her hand across her brow—“crime is but the hallmark of strong individuality.” Miss Naylor, gushing rather pink, stammered: “A great crime must show itself—a murder. Why, of course!” “If that were so,” said Dawney, “we should only have to look about us—no more detectives.” Miss Naylor rejoined with slight severity: “I cannot conceive that such a thing can pass the human face by, leaving no impression!” Harz said abruptly: “There are worse things than murder.” “Ah! par exemple!” said Sarelli. There was a slight stir all round the table. “Verry good,” cried out Herr Paul, “a vot' sante, cher.” Miss Naylor shivered, as if some one had put a penny down her back; and Mrs. Decie, leaning towards Harz, smiled like one who has made a pet dog do a trick. Christian alone was motionless, looking thoughtfully at Harz. “I saw a man tried for murder once,” he said, “a murder for revenge; I watched the judge, and I thought all the time: 'I'd rather be that murderer than you; I've never seen a meaner face; you crawl through life; you're not a criminal, simply because you haven't the courage.'” In the dubious silence following the painter's speech, Mr. Treffry could distinctly be heard humming. Then Sarelli said: “What do you say to anarchists, who are not men, but savage beasts, whom I would tear to pieces!” “As to that,” Harz answered defiantly, “it maybe wise to hang them, but then there are so many other men that it would be wise to hang.” “How can we tell what they went through; what their lives were?” murmured Christian. Miss Naylor, who had been rolling a pellet of bread, concealed it hastily. “They are—always given a chance to—repent—I believe,” she said. “For what they are about to receive,” drawled Dawney. Mrs. Decie signalled with her fan: “We are trying to express the inexpressible—shall we go into the garden?” All rose; Harz stood by the window, and in passing, Christian looked at him.