Mr. Desmond’s mind was not altogether in his work that day, and more than once the remorseless pen of the editor lay idle in his hand, while he pondered on a subject which within the last year had become the unanswerable enigma of his existence. It was much easier for him to soothe Emily’s doubts with pretty, reassuring speeches than to satisfy the perplexities of his own mind. Was this lukewarm friendship an alliance that good men and pure-minded women could approve--this friendship which must needs be continually measured by the thermometer of the proprieties, lest it should become a degree or so warmer than society could warrant? Was it a fair and honourable thing, this tacit engagement, the fulfilment whereof was contingent on the death of a man whose hand Laurence had taken in friendship many times in the past, whom he might meet with friendly greeting to-morrow? No, a thousand times no! Laurence Desmond was well aware that he occupied one of those false positions into which men sometimes slip unawares, and from which extrication is so difficult. Could he bring himself to tell Emily Jerningham that this friendship was wrong, and that it lacked even the charm that sweetens some wrong-doing? Could he do this, could he inflict pain upon her, when his own conscience told him that the keen sense of the dishonour involved in his position had only arisen in his mind since the position itself had become wearisome to him? Yes, this was the _mot de l’énigme_. He had loved her very dearly; but he loved her no longer. He looked backward to the days in which he had walked with her in the little garden at Passy, and thought how happy they might both have been if he had been less prudent, if he had obeyed the impulses of his heart, instead of the hard axioms of the worldly-wise. The time and the opportunity were past and gone, and he felt that some part of his own youth and hope had gone with them. He made his appearance at Spa when Mrs. Jerningham and Mrs. Colton had been at that pleasant watering-place for more than a month, and he was received somewhat coldly by the younger lady, who could not forgive him for doing his duty as editor of the _Areopagus_. But she soon melted. It was not possible that she should long conceal the delight she felt in his presence. “I am angry with myself for being so glad to see you,” she cried at last; “but, oh, you cannot imagine how dull and hopeless my life has been in this place! My poor aunt likes the humdrum gaiety, and the nauseous waters, and the dawdling drives, and the Tauchnitz novels; and I have stayed to please her. But more than once I have been tempted to take the train for Liége, and offer myself as a novice at the first convent I came to after leaving the station. Why should I not go into a convent, or at least a béguinage? What use am I in the world?”