The idea that he had been duped by his own vanity stung him to the quick. He studiously avoided the places in which he was likely to encounter Emily Jerningham, and it was not until a year after her marriage that he met her. He came upon her suddenly one bright autumn day in an obscure foreign picture-gallery. For years after that day he was able to recall the scene of their unexpected meeting--the quaint old chamber in the courtyard of an hospital, the grim pre-Raphaelite pictures of unpleasant martyrdoms, the dusty motes dancing in the sunlight, and the listless grace of a woman who stood with her back towards him, leaning on the top rail of a chair, with an open catalogue held loosely in her hand. There was no one but this woman in the gallery. The door banged behind Mr. Desmond as he went in, and startled by the noise, she turned and looked at him. This is how he met Emily Jerningham. The white change in her face told him that he had not been the dupe of a delusion when he fancied himself beloved. He felt that he must be something more than a common acquaintance to the woman who looked at him with that pale, terror-stricken face. For a moment he feared that Mrs. Jerningham would faint; but the fear was groundless. She belonged to a class in which the women have some touch of the Roman’s grandeur mingled with the sensuous softness of the Greek. The colour came back to her cheeks and lips in a few moments, and she held out her hand to her dead father’s friend. “How do you do, Mr. Desmond?” she said. “I did not know that you were in Germany.” “No. I am taking a brief holiday. Is Mr. Jerningham with you?” “Yes; he had letters to write this morning, and sent me to explore this curious old hospital by myself. Do you stay long here?” “I go on to Vienna this evening.” The beautiful face grew pale again. Mrs. Jerningham looked at her catalogue. “I think I have seen all the pictures,” she said. “My guide has gone to look for the key of some mysterious chamber; I must go in search of him. Good-morning, Mr. Desmond. Oh, here is my husband!” Mr. Jerningham sauntered into the gallery. “I couldn’t stand any more letter-writing, so I came to see your pictures, Emily,” he said. “Ah, Desmond, how do you do? What brings you to this queer old place, so completely out of the beaten track--almost beyond the ken of _Murray_? You know my wife? Ah, I remember; your father and her father were great cronies. How is it you never told me you knew Desmond, Emily?” Mrs. Jerningham’s reply was only a vague murmur; but her husband was not one of those men who hang upon the utterances or watch the looks of their wives. He allowed the woman he had chosen ample liberty, only requiring that her toilette should be perfect, her voice harmonious, her movements graceful, and her reputation spotless. For it is an understood thing, that whatever character Cæsar himself may bear, there must be no possibility of suspicion with regard to Cæsar’s wife.