ll 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.

There was a long pleasant pause.

"They're giving Sloane a dinner to-night at the 'Travellers'," Stuart
said at last, "in honor of his going to Abyssinia."

Stuart pondered for some short time as to what sort of a reply Miss
Delamar's understudy ought to make