The river lay before him, deeply blue under the cloudless sky; and on his left, half hidden amongst guelder-roses and the dark foliage of myrtle and magnolia, there was the villa, a fantastical edifice, in which the Tudor, the Moorish, the Italian, and the mediæval Norman forms of architecture had struggled for preeminence; a house which seemed all windows, and in which every window was of a different type--the house of all others to be dear to the heart of a woman. The garden of roses, the river, and the fantastical villa made altogether a very charming picture--a picture which Mr. Desmond contemplated with a half-regretful sigh. “Surely one ought to find happiness in such a place!” he said to himself. He had entered by a little gate that was rarely locked; and he went across the lawn towards an open drawing-room window, with the air of a man who has no need of ceremonial announcement. Mrs. Jerningham came out of the window as he approached. “Good morning, Mr. Desmond,” she said, as they shook hands. “Have you come by rail--on such a warm day too? That is very good of you. I think a noonday ride in a railway carriage at this time of year is a species of martyrdom. One thinks of the iron coffin and the Piombi at Venice, and that kind of thing.” Mr. Desmond looked at the speaker, doubtfully. This was evidently not exactly the reception he was accustomed to receive from Mrs. Jerningham. “If you are going to talk to me like a stage-widow, Emily, I had better go back to town,” said he, gravely. “How should I talk to you? I see you so seldom now, that I lose the habit of adapting my conversation to your taste. I think stage-widows are very charming people. At any rate, they always find _something_ to say, and that is an important consideration.” “I have been very much occupied lately.” “It seems to me that you are always very much occupied. I saw your name, by the bye, amongst the names of the people at the breakfast at Pembury.” “I was obliged to go to Pembury.” “And you were at Marble Hill on Tuesday.” “I had particular business with Lord Chorlton.” “And you chose the occasion of an archery fête for your business.” “I was glad to seize any opportunity. Chorlton is not easily to be got at.” “Oh, please don’t speak of him as if he were a jockey,” exclaimed the lady, with an air of irrepressible irritation. “What has happened to annoy you this morning, Mrs. Jerningham?” “Nothing--this morning.” “But something _has_ annoyed you.”