Mr. Desmond stayed a fortnight at Spa, and then hurried back to the British Isles, being “due” at a ducal palace in the Highlands--a grand old château, romantic as a picture by Gustave Doré. To say that he assured Mrs. Jerningham he had not the faintest expectation of deriving pleasure from this visit, and that he went to Scotland simply because the political interests of the _Areopagus_ obliged him to stalk the duke’s deer and shoot the duke’s grouse, is only to say that he was a _man_. Within a week from his departure Mrs. Jerningham and her companion also turned their backs upon the romantic Belgian valley. Emily would have liked much to make the return journey under the escort of the editor; but this would have just a little outstepped the bounds of this carefully regulated friendship, and Mr. Desmond was too profoundly versed in the philosophy of his own world to suggest the measure. He knew exactly how much would be permitted to himself and the woman he--had loved, and still hoped to marry; and he adhered closely to the letter of that unwritten law which is Society’s Koran. When autumn was fast fading into the chill gray of early winter, Mr. Desmond came back to town, and resumed his visits at the Hampton villa, where his pleasure and his caprices were studied with affectionate solicitude, but where a good deal was exacted from him in return for this solicitude. If Mrs. Jerningham for her part paid a certain price for Laurence Desmond’s friendship, so surely did he for his part pay somewhat heavily for the honour and privilege of the lady’s regard. In plain English, she was jealous. The agony which neither “mandragora nor all the drowsy syrups of the East” can lull to rest was the agony that racked the soul of Emily Jerningham. Little wonder that the pleasures and luxuries of her life palled upon her. There was a poison in her cup which flavoured every joy and embittered every pleasure. All the petty doubts and frivolous misgivings of the jealous mind harassed this lady’s quiet days, and tormented her through the slow hours of her wakeful nights. She was miserable when Laurence Desmond was away from her; she was restless and anxious when he was with her. If he were grave, she fancied him bored by her society; if he were especially gay, her demon-familiar suggested that his gaiety might be assumed. She tortured him by her eager curiosity about the manner in which his life was spent when he was away from her. She insulted him by the air of incredulity with which she received his answers. The mention of some beautiful or distinguished woman whom he had met in society sufficed to fan the flame that was always burning.