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Stuart stirred uneasily in his chair and poked at the fire before him.

“Do you remember the day you came to see me,” said the Picture, sentimentally, “and built the fire yourself and lighted some girl’s letters to make it burn?”

“Yes,” said Stuart, “that is, I said that they were some girl’s letters. It made it more picturesque. I am afraid they were bills. I should say I did remember it,” he continued, enthusiastically. “You wore a black dress and little red slippers with big black rosettes, and you looked as beautiful as–as night–as a moonlight night.”

The Picture frowned slightly.

“You are always telling me about how I looked,” she complained; “can’t you remember any time when we were together without remembering what I had on and how I appeared?”

“I cannot,” said Stuart, promptly. “I can recall lots of other things besides, but I can’t forget how you looked. You have a fashion of emphasizing episodes in that way which is entirely your own. But, as I say, I can remember something else. Do you remember, for instance, when we went up to West Point on that yacht? Wasn’t it a grand day, with the autumn leaves on both sides of the Hudson, and the dress parade, and the dance afterward at the hotel?”

“Yes, I should think I did,” said the Picture, smiling. “You spent all your time examining cannon, and talking to the men about ‘firing in open order,’ and left me all alone.”

“Left you all alone! I like that,” laughed Stuart; “all alone with about eighteen officers.”

“Well, but that was natural,” returned the Picture. “They were men. It’s natural for a girl to talk to men, but why should a man want to talk to men?”

“Well, I know better than that now,” said Stuart.

He proceeded to show that he knew better by remaining silent for the next half hour, during which time he continued to wonder whether this effort to keep up a conversation was not radically wrong. He thought of several things he might say, but he argued that it was an impossible situation where a man had to make conversation with his own wife.

The clock struck ten as he sat waiting, and he moved uneasily in his chair.

“What is it?” asked the Picture; “what makes you so restless?”

Stuart regarded the Picture timidly for a moment before he spoke. “I was just thinking,” he said, doubtfully, “that we might run down after all, and take a look in at the last act; it’s not too late even now. They’re sure to run behind on the first night. And then,” he urged, “we can go around and see Seldon. You have never been behind the scenes, have you? It’s very interesting.”

“No, I have not, but if we do,” remonstrated the Picture, pathetically, “you know all those men will come trooping home with us. You know they will.”

“But that’s very complimentary,” said Stuart. “Why, I like my friends to like my wife.”

“Yes, but you know how they stay when they get here,” she answered; “I don’t believe they ever sleep. Don’t you remember the last supper you gave me before we were married, when Mrs. Starr and you all were discussing Mr. Seldon’s play? She didn’t make a move to go until half past two, and I was that sleepy, I couldn’t keep my eyes open.”

“Yes,” said Stuart, “I remember. I’m sorry. I thought it was very interesting. Seldon changed the whole second act on account of what she said. Well, after this,” he laughed with cheerful desperation, “I think I shall make up for the part of a married man in a pair of slippers and a dressing-gown, and then perhaps I won’t be tempted to roam abroad at night.”

“You must wear the gown they are going to give you at Oxford,” said the Picture, smiling placidly. “The one Aunt Lucy was telling me about. Why do they give you a gown?” she asked. “It seems such an odd thing to do.”