“This is not fair, Emily,” said Mr. Desmond, almost sternly. “When I lament the restraints of my position, it will be time for you to reproach yourself on my account, and not till then. Pray let us be reasonable. When you and Harold Jerningham parted for ever, it was agreed between us that we should be friends, and friends only, so long as your husband’s life should last. He is so many years our senior, that it is not possible for us to ignore the fact that in all likelihood the day will come when you and I can be united by a sweeter tie than that of friendship. If there be a sin involved in looking forward to that day hopefully, but not impatiently--I have been guilty of that sin; but I have been guilty of no other wrong against the man who bears your name. God knows, and you know, that I have been true to our compact. I have been your friend, and nothing but your friend. No shadow of a lover’s caprice, no touch of a lover’s jealousy, has ever clouded our friendship. It has been the one bright oasis in the desert of an anxious and laborious life. And if you think that the treasure is unvalued by me because I do not spend three days a week in the delicious idleness of this garden, or because I do not waste all my evenings in your drawing-room, you are only a new example of the ignorance which obtains among your class with regard to the necessities of a working life.” Mrs. Jerningham’s face brightened considerably while Mr. Desmond was speaking. It was a fine patrician face, with the bloom of youth still upon it, in spite of the lady’s nine-and-twenty years’ residence in this planet. She turned to Mr. Desmond with a smile, and held out her hand. “Shake hands, Laurence, and forgive me,” she said, gently. It was part of their covenant that they should be at liberty to address each other by their Christian names, but that none of the epithets sacred to the use of lovers should ever obtain currency between them. “And you are really not tired of your position?” said Mrs. Jerningham, with a pleading smile. “Have I ever hinted a complaint?” “No, Laurence. But then you are not the kind of person to complain. You would be like that dreadful Spartan boy one never hears the last of: you would hide the animal--why do some people call it a wolf, and others a fox, by the bye?--under your waistcoat, and go about the world smiling the smile of martyrdom. I am so afraid of doing you a great wrong. Poets and novelists are always preaching about a woman’s unselfishness; but I really think that is one of the formulas of their art. Have I not shown myself very selfish, Laurence? I allowed my foolish eyes to be dazzled by that Dead-Sea fruit which the world calls a splendid marriage; and having bitten the apple and found the bitterness of its core, I share the ashes with you.” “I am very well content with the ashes.” “Some day you will be tired of your bondage.” “When that day comes, I will ask you for my freedom.” “Will you promise me that, Laurence?”