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Stuart decided that under these new conditions it would be more pleasant to dine at Delmonico’s, and he was on the point of asking the Picture what she thought of it, when he remembered that while it had been possible for him to make a practice of dining at that place as a bachelor, he could not now afford so expensive a luxury, and he decided that he had better economize in that particular and go instead to one of the table d’hote restaurants in the neighborhood. He regretted not having thought of this sooner, for he did not care to dine at a table d’hote in evening dress, as in some places it rendered him conspicuous. So, sooner than have this happen he decided to dine at home, as he had originally intended when he first thought of attempting this experiment, and then conducted the picture into dinner and placed her in an armchair facing him, with the candles full upon the face.

“Now this is something like,” he exclaimed, joyously. “I can’t imagine anything better than this. Here we are all to ourselves with no one to bother us, with no chaperone, or chaperone’s husband either, which is generally worse. Why is it, my dear,” he asked gayly, in a tone that he considered affectionate and husbandly, “that the attractive chaperones are always handicapped by such stupid husbands, and vice versa?”

“If that is true,” replied the Picture, or replied Stuart, rather, for the picture, “I cannot be a very attractive chaperone.” Stuart bowed politely at this, and then considered the point it had raised as to whether he had, in assuming both characters, the right to pay himself compliments. He decided against himself in this particular instance, but agreed that he was not responsible for anything the Picture might say, so long as he sincerely and fairly tried to make it answer him as he thought the original would do under like circumstances. From what he knew of the original under other conditions, he decided that he could give a very close imitation of her point of view.

Stuart’s interest in his dinner was so real that he found himself neglecting his wife, and he had to pull himself up to his duty with a sharp reproof. After smiling back at her for a moment or two until his servant had again left them alone, he asked her to tell him what she had been doing during the day.

“Oh, nothing very important,” said the Picture. “I went shopping in the morning and–“

Stuart stopped himself and considered this last remark doubtfully. “Now, how do I know she would go shopping?” he asked himself. “People from Harlem and women who like bargain counters, and who eat chocolate meringue for lunch, and then stop in at a continuous performance, go shopping. It must be the comic paper sort of wives who go about matching shades and buying hooks and eyes. Yes, I must have made Miss Delamar’s understudy misrepresent her. I beg your pardon, my dear,” he said aloud to the Picture. “You did not go shopping this morning. You probably went to a woman’s luncheon somewhere. Tell me about that.”

“Oh, yes, I went to lunch with the Antwerps,” said the Picture, “and they had that Russian woman there who is getting up subscriptions for the Siberian prisoners. It’s rather fine of her because it exiles her from Russia. And she is a princess.”

“That’s nothing,” Stuart interrupted, “they’re all princesses when you see them on Broadway.”

“I beg your pardon,” said the Picture.

“It’s of no consequence,” said Stuart, apologetically, “it’s a comic song. I forgot you didn’t like comic songs. Well–go on.”

“Oh, then I went to a tea, and then I stopped in to hear Madame Ruvier read a paper on the Ethics of Ibsen, and she–“

Stuart’s voice had died away gradually, and he caught himself wondering whether he had told George to lay in a fresh supply of cigars. “I beg your pardon,” he said, briskly, “I was listening, but I was just wondering whether I had any cigars left. You were saying that you had been at Madame Ruvier’s, and–“