So all the invitations were refused, and Laurence ate his Christmas dinner at Eiver Lawn, where he met a second-rate literary celebrity and his wife, and an elderly magnate of the War Office, who had been a bosom-friend of Mrs. Jerningham’s father. They were people whom he met very frequently at Hampton. He knew the literary gentleman’s good stories by heart, and loathed them; he knew the bad stories of the War Office magnate, and loathed them with a still deeper aversion; indeed, there were different series of Castlereaghiana and Wellingtoniana, which inspired him with a wild desire to throw claret-jugs and other instruments of warfare at the head of the narrator. Mrs. Jerningham’s circle grew narrower every day. The green-eyed monster held her in his fatal grip, and one by one she struck the best names from her visiting-list. She did not care to invite very pretty women or very charming women; for every word or look of Laurence Desmond’s was a sufficient cause for doubt and terror in her diseased imagination. She was jealous even of very agreeable men, if they absorbed too much of the editor’s attention. She condemned him to dulness, and yet upbraided him because he was not gay. “I fear you have not enjoyed your evening, Laurence,” she said, as he lingered for a few minutes’ confidential talk before hurrying off to catch the last train for London. “I have enjoyed my little snatches of talk with you,” he answered, mildly; “but I am getting rather tired of Stapleton, and your old friend’s Wellington stories are almost too much for human endurance.” “How do you like Mrs. Stapleton?” “I have told you at least a dozen times. She is neither particularly pretty nor particularly amusing. She gave me some very interesting details about her elder boy’s experiences in the way of whooping-cough, and the trouble she has with her cook. How is it I never see your friends the Westcombes? He is a very nice fellow, and Mrs. Westcombe a most delightful little woman.” “You think her pretty?” “Amazingly pretty, in the soubrette style. You used to admire her so much.” “I think it was you who admired her so much,” answered Mrs. Jerningham, with suppressed acrimony. “I only echoed your sentiments. Have you quarrelled with her?” “I am not in the habit of quarrelling with my acquaintance.” “No; but you have a knack of dropping them. Your house used to be the pleasantest in England.” “And it has ceased to be so because Mrs. Westcombe has ceased to visit me? If I cannot make my house pleasant to you myself, I will not ask you to come to it.” “Your house is always pleasant to me when I find you and Mrs. Colton alone; but even you cannot make dull people agreeable. If you invite people for my pleasure, you should choose those I like.” “Very well, Monsieur le Soudain, in future I will send you my visiting-list.” “You are always unjust, Emily. You cross-question me, and then object to my candour.”