“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.”

Stuart wondered at what hour he would come home now that he was married.  As a bachelor he had been in the habit of stopping on his way up town from the law office at the club, or to take tea at the houses of the different girls he liked.  Of course he could not do that now as a married man.  He would instead have to limit his calls to married women, as all the other married men of his acquaintance did.  But at the moment he could not think of any attractive married women who would like his dropping in on them in such a familiar manner, and the other sort did not as yet appeal to him.

He seated himself in front of the coal-fire in the library, with the Picture in a chair close beside him, and as he puffed pleasantly on his cigar he thought how well this suited him, and how delightful it was to find content in so simple and continuing a pleasure.  He could almost feel the pressure of his wife’s hand as it lay in his own, as they sat in silent sympathy looking into the friendly glow of the fire.