“In what?”

“In the gown.  You are not listening,” said the Picture, reproachfully.  “You ought to.  Aunt Lucy says it’s a beautiful shade of red silk, and very long.  Is it?”

“I don’t know,” said Stuart, he shook his head, and dropping his chin into his hands, stared coldly down into the fire.  He tried to persuade himself that he had been vainglorious, and that he had given too much weight to the honor which the University of Oxford would bestow upon him; that he had taken the degree too seriously, and that the Picture’s view of it was the view of the rest of the world.  But he could not convince himself that he was entirely at fault.

“Is it too late to begin on Guizot?” suggested his Picture, as an alternative to his plan.  “It sounds so improving.”

“Yes, it is much too late,” answered Stuart, decidedly.  “Besides, I don’t want to be improved.  I want to be amused, or inspired, or scolded.  The chief good of friends is that they do one of these three things, and a wife should do all three.”

“Which shall I do?” asked the Picture, smiling good-humoredly.

Stuart looked at the beautiful face and at the reclining figure of the woman to whom he was to turn for sympathy for the rest of his life, and felt a cold shiver of terror, that passed as quickly as it came.  He reached out his hand and placed it on the arm of the chair where his wife’s hand should have been, and patted the place kindly.  He would shut his eyes to everything but that she was good and sweet and his wife.  Whatever else she lacked that her beauty had covered up and hidden, and the want of which had lain unsuspected in their previous formal intercourse, could not be mended now.  He would settle his step to hers, and eliminate all those interests from his life which were not hers as well.  He had chosen a beautiful idol, and not a companion, for a wife.  He had tried to warm his hands at the fire of a diamond.

Stuart’s eyes closed wearily as though to shut out the memories of the past, or the foreknowledge of what the future was sure to be.  His head sank forward on his breast, and with his hand shading his eyes, he looked beyond, through the dying fire, into the succeeding years.

* * * * *

The gay little French clock on the table sounded the hour of midnight briskly, with a pert insistent clamor, and at the same instant a boisterous and unruly knocking answered it from outside the library door.

Stuart rose uncertainly from his chair and surveyed the tiny clock face with a startled expression of bewilderment and relief.

“Stuart!” his friends called impatiently from the hall.  “Stuart, let us in!” and without waiting further for recognition a merry company of gentlemen pushed their way noisily into the room.