trooping by in the cold small rain, impassibly dripping from their glazed hat-brims upon their uniforms.  But he could not feel that these things were any of them very poignantly significant; and he covered his retreat from the actualities of Nuremberg by visiting the chief book-store and buying more photographs of the architecture than he wanted, and more local histories than he should ever read.  He made a last effort for the contemporaneous life by asking the English-speaking clerk if there were any literary men of distinction living in Nuremberg, and the clerk said there was not one.

He went home to breakfast wondering if he should be able to make his meagre facts serve with his wife; but he found her far from any wish to listen to them.  She was intent upon a pair of young lovers, at a table near her own, who were so absorbed in each other that they were proof against an interest that must otherwise have pierced them through.  The bridegroom, as he would have called himself, was a pretty little Bavarian lieutenant, very dark and regular, and the bride was as pretty and as little, but delicately blond.  Nature had admirably mated them, and if art had helped to bring them together through the genius of the bride’s mother, who was breakfasting with them, it had wrought almost as fitly.  Mrs. March queried impartially who they were, where they met, and how, and just when they were going to be married; and March consented, in his personal immunity from their romance, to let it go on under his eyes without protest.  But later, when they met the lovers in the street, walking arm in arm, with the bride’s mother behind them gloating upon their bliss, he said the woman ought, at her time of life, to be ashamed of such folly.  She must know that this affair, by nine chances out of ten, could not fail to eventuate at the best in a marriage as tiresome as most other marriages, and yet she was abandoning herself with those ignorant young people to the illusion that it was the finest and sweetest thing in life.

“Well, isn’t it?” his wife asked.

“Yes, that’s the worst of it.  It shows how poverty-stricken life really is.  We want somehow to believe that each pair of lovers will find the good we have missed, and be as happy as we expected to be.”

“I think we have been happy enough, and that we’ve had as much good as was wholesome for us,” she returned, hurt.

“You’re always so concrete!  I meant us in the abstract.  But if you will be personal, I’ll say that you’ve been as happy as you deserve, and got more good than you had any right to.”

She laughed with him, and then they laughed again to perceive that they were walking arm in arm too, like the lovers, whom they were insensibly following.

He proposed that while they were in the mood they should go again to the old cemetery, and see the hinged jaw of the murdered Paumgartner, wagging in eternal accusation of his murderess.  “It’s rather hard on her, that he should be having the last word, that way,” he said.  “She was a woman, no matter what mistakes she had committed.”