To this kind of talk Mr. Desmond was tolerably well accustomed. It is the kind of talk which a man whom fate, or his own folly, has placed in a false position is sure to hear. One can fancy that Paris must have had rather a heavy time of it with Helen; and that when he went forth prancing like a war-horse to meet Menelaus, his gaiety may have in some degree arisen from his sense of escaping an impending curtain-lecture from the divine Tyndarid. For some weeks after this conversation the editor of the _Areopagus_ contrived to be more than usually occupied with the affairs of his paper. He sent Mrs. Jerningham tickets for concerts, and new books, and new music; but River Lawn he avoided. It was only upon a royal command from the lady that he appeared there one afternoon, about six weeks after the funeral at Ventnor. He found Lucy looking better; but Lucy’s patroness was paler than usual, and was much disturbed by a dry, hacking cough, which somewhat alarmed Mr. Desmond. Emily herself, however, made very light of the cough, nor did Mrs. Colton seem to consider it of any importance. “It is only a winter cough,” said Mrs. Jerningham; “I have suffered from the same kind of thing every winter, if, indeed, you can call it suffering. I suppose one must pay some penalty for living by the river. But I would not exchange my Thames for the gift of exemption from cough.” “It is quite a Morland cough,” said Mrs. Colton; “my sister, Emily’s mamma, had just the same kind of cough every winter.” Morland was the name of Mrs. Jerningham’s maternal ancestry. Laurence bethought himself that Emily’s mother had died at thirty years of age, and he was not inclined to make light of the Morland cough. “I wish you would come to town to-morrow and see Dr. Leonards,” he said, by and by, when he and Emily were out of earshot of Mrs. Colton; “I don’t see why you should go on coughing, or stay by the river, if Hampton disagrees with you.” “Dr. Leonards is the great man for the chest, is he not?” asked Mrs. Jerningham. “It would be really too absurd for me to see him. I have nothing whatever the matter with my chest, except a little pain occasionally, which Mr. Canterham, the Hampton surgeon, calls indigestion. Dr. Leonards would laugh at me.” “So much the better if he does,” answered Laurence. “But I should very much like you to see him. You will do so, won’t you, Emily, to oblige me?” “To oblige you!” repeated Mrs. Jerningham, regarding him with a thoughtful gaze. “Why are you so anxious to consult the oracle? Is it to resolve a doubt, or to confirm a hope?” “Emily!” “Oh, forgive me!” she cried, holding out her hand. “I am always thinking or saying something wicked. The Calvinists must surely be right; for I feel as if I had been created a vile creature, ‘not born to be judged, but judged before I was born.’ I will go to see your Dr. Leonards. I will do anything in the world to please you!”