“Are you prepared to stand a competitive examination in the last I brought you?” “Better than you in the works of the authors you have lately annihilated, Mr. Editor and Reviewer.” On this they went back to the house, where they were received by the most amiable of dragons, dressed in dove-coloured silk, and a pale-blue morning-cap, which made middle age a state for youth to envy. The luncheon, in common with all the surroundings of Harold Jerningham’s wife, was perfection. The spirit of the elegant Harold himself pervaded this house, across the threshold whereof his foot had never passed. It was Mr. Jerningham’s pet architect who had restored the miniature mansion, and Mr. Jerningham’s favourite upholsterer who had decorated and furnished the interior. When Mrs. Jerningham wanted a new servant, it was Mr. Jerningham’s steward who supplied the vacancy in her well-organized establishment. Life had been made very easy for her since her separation from her husband--a little too easy, perhaps; for a woman who has none of the ordinary cares of her sex is apt to create troubles of her own. People who wondered and speculated about the separation were often surprised to hear Mr. Jerningham say: “I have bought that picture for my wife;” or, “I am looking for a safe pony-phaeton for my wife;” or, “I want to find a good binder for some books of my wife’s.” He took pains to let the world know that he was on excellent terms with the lady in the toy-villa; and this certificate of character had served Emily Jerningham in good stead. Her husband’s diplomacy might have kept even the sacred portals of such houses as Marble Hill open to her, if Mr. Desmond had not been quite so frequent a visitor at her house. But the world is slow to believe in a Platonic attachment, and it is not to be denied that the friendship of Laurence Desmond had cost Mrs. Jerningham a certain price. Nor was that friendship altogether pleasant to her. The conversation of this morning was only a variation upon a very familiar theme. Again and again Mr. Desmond had been called upon to listen to the same complaints, and to dispel the same doubts. There were times when he was very conscious of the pain and weariness involved in this state of things. There were times when a still, small voice within him echoed Emily Jerningham’s wish that they had never met in the hospital at Bundersbad, never renewed the friendship so near akin to love, never interchanged those foolish, sentimental letters which had caused the separation of Harold and his wife. It seemed such a weak, frivolous, despicable piece of wrong-doing, now that it was done, and had exercised a lifelong influence upon the destinies of three people. If Mrs. Jerningham was doubtful and suspicious of Mr. Desmond, he, on his part, was not entirely at his ease about her. Was she happy? He asked himself that question very often, and the answer was not always pleasant to him.