“If that is true,” replied the Picture, or replied Stuart, rather, for the Picture, “I cannot be a very attractive chaperon.”  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—­”

“I am afraid that you were not interested,” said the Picture.  “Never mind, it’s my fault.  Sometimes I think I ought to do things of more interest, so that I should have something to talk to you about when you come home.”