irst night, that's all. But he'll understand."

"Oh," said the Picture, "if you put it in the light of a duty to your
friend, of course we will go--"

"Not at all," replied Stuart, heartily; "I will read something. I
should really prefer it. How would you like something of Browning's?"

"Oh, I read all of Browning once," said the Picture. "I think I should
like something new."

Stuart gasped at this, but said nothing, and began turning over the
books on the centre-table. He selected one of the monthly magazines,
and choosing a story which neither of them had read, sat down
comfortably in front of the fire, and finished it without interruption
and to the satisfaction of the Picture and himself. The story had made
the half hour pass very pleasantly, and they both commented on it with
interest.

"I had an experience once myself something like that," said Stuart,
with a pleased smile of recollection; "it happened in Paris"--he began
with the deliberation of a man who is sure of his story--"and it
turned out in much the same way. It didn't begin in Paris; it really
began while we were crossing the English Channel to--"

"Oh, you mean about the Russian who took you for some one else and had
you followed," said the Picture. "Yes, that was like it, except that
in your case nothing happened."

Stuart took his cigar from between his lips and frowned severely at
the lighted end for some little time before he spoke.

"My dear," he remonstrated, gently, "you mustn't tell me I've told you
all my old stories before. It isn't fair. Now that I am married, you
see, I can't go about and have new experiences, and I've got to make
use of the old ones."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," exclaimed the Picture, remorsefully. "I didn't
mean to be rude. Please tell me about it. I should like to hear it
again, ever so much. I _should_ like to hear it again, really."

"Nonsense," said Stuart, laughing and shaking his head. "I was only
joking; personally I hate people who tell long stories. That doesn't
matter. I was thinking of something else."

He continued thinking of something else, which was, that though he had
been in jest when he spoke of having given up the chance of meeting
fresh experiences, he had nevertheless described a condition, and a
painfully true one. His real life seemed to have stopped, and he saw
himself in the future looking back and referring to it, as though it
were the career of an entirely different person, of a young man,