“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.”

“The gown comes with the degree, I believe,” said Stuart.

“But why do they give you a degree?” persisted the Picture; “you never studied at Oxford, did you?”

Stuart moved slightly in his chair and shook his head.  “I thought I told you,” he said, gently.  “No, I never studied there.  I wrote some books on—­things, and they liked them.”

“Oh, yes, I remember now, you did tell me,” said the Picture; “and I told Aunt Lucy about it, and said we would be in England during the season, when you got your degree, and she said you must be awfully clever to get it.  You see—­she does appreciate you, and you always treat her so distantly.”

“Do I?” said Stuart; quietly; “I’m sorry.”

“Will you have your portrait painted in it?” asked the Picture.