Hereupon Mr. Desmond had to reiterate the old protestations, to the effect that the lady’s friendship was the pride and happiness of his life, and that to him, at least, she was a person of supreme importance--the very pole-star, or guiding influence, of his life; and then, after speaking to her with great warmth and kindness, he began to lecture her a little upon the emptiness of her existence. “You would not be so foolish as to imagine these things, if you were more employed, Emily,” he said. “How shall I employ myself?” asked the lady, with an incredulous laugh. “Shall I tat? The tatting of our great-grandmothers has come into fashion. I have tried it, and for a little while it seemed really delightful; but there is a time when one gets tired even of that. I have worked screens in Berlin wool with beads--or have begun them; my aunt has a knack of finishing my work. I paint ever so little in water-colours; but after sitting in a damp meadow for two or three hours, exposed to a midsummer sun, the result is only that I hate myself because I am not Creswick. And with music it is the same. The morning-concerts spoil one for amateur music. I devoted last summer to the harmonium--I suppose because there is such a rage for it; but it was like the tatting--there came a stage at which it seemed all weariness. If it were not for my orchids, I think I should go melancholy mad; but for the cultivator of orchids there can be no such thing as satiety until all the forests on the shores of the Amazon have been rifled by exploring botanists.” “Don’t you think it just possible you might find a better source of interest even than orchids?” suggested the editor, gravely. “Your fellow-creatures, for instance--a little sympathy for them might not be thrown away.” “You mean that I should turn district-visitor, and go about with tracts and packets of tea and sugar,” replied the lady, listlessly. “My aunt does all that. She is a clergyman’s widow, you know, and that kind of thing is very easy to her. My maid goes with her sometimes, and tells me dreadful things about the poor people, as she brushes my hair--the St. Anthony’s fires and St. Vitus’s dances, and wens and whitlows, and frightful complaints that they suffer from; and really there seems a particular class of diseases that poor people have entirely to themselves, just as if they have a copyright in them, you know. I am sure I am very sorry for the poor creatures; and when there is anything out of the common way, we send money; besides which, our rector knows that my cheque-book is at his service in any emergency. I cannot see that I should do any particular good by walking about in the hot sun with tracts.” “I dare say, so far as your own parish goes, you and your aunt are ministering angels, my dear Emily; but you see that is a very narrow sphere, and there are people of a higher class than those you help who may have more need of your sympathy.”