It was observed that whoever was bidden to the nice little dinner-parties at the toy villa, there was one gentleman whose presence was a certainty. It was observed that whenever Mrs. Jerningham dropped in for an hour or two at any fashionable assembly, this gentleman was sure to drop in at the same hour, and to depart, listless and weary, as soon as he had handed that lady to her carriage. He was not one of the butterflies, but had been admitted amongst those gorgeous creatures on account of certain gifts and qualities which the butterflies were able to appreciate. He was a powerful satirist, something of a poet, and the editor of a fashionable semi-political, semi-literary periodical, entitled “The Areopagus.” He was five-and-thirty years of age, as handsome as an intellectual man can venture to be, and as elegant as a Lauzun or a Hervey. He had chambers in the Temple, a hunting-box in Berkshire, the _entrée_ to all the best houses in London, and a hundred country houses always open to him. The Bohemians of the press watched his career with envious eyes, and would have rejoiced infinitely to catch him tripping on the difficult editorial pathway, so that they might band themselves together to rend him in pieces. The first time these watchful enemies obtained any advantage over him was when the western world began to whisper that he had fallen in love with Mrs. Jerningham. Then the literary Bohemians, the “Cherokees” and “Night-birds,” and all the little clubs and cliques in London, set up their malicious chatter; and men who had never beheld Emily Jerningham’s face speculated upon her conduct and gloated over the anticipation of some tremendous scandal which should terminate in Laurence Desmond’s expulsion from the Eden of fashion. The clubs and cliques were doomed to disappointment. No tremendous scandal ever arose. After a little discussion, the world agreed to accept this Platonic attachment between the lady and the editor as the most delightful of social romances. Mrs. Jerningham had taken care to provide herself with a perfect dragon in the way of an elderly widowed aunt, whose husband had been in the Church--and, sheltered thus, she was free to bestow her friendship on whom she pleased. Time, which sanctifies all things, gave a kind of legality to the Platonic attachment; and in due course it became an understood thing that Mr. Desmond would never marry until Harold Jerningham’s death should set Emily free. If any rumour of this romantic friendship reached Mr. Jerningham’s ears, he received the tidings very quietly. No _preux chevalier_ ever spoke of his liege lady in a more reverential spirit than that in which Harold Jerningham spoke of his wife. It seemed as if these two people had agreed to sound each other’s praises. Emily declared her husband to be the most noble and generous of men; Harold lauded his wife as the purest and most honourable of women. Malicious people shrugged their shoulders and hinted at hypocrisy.