“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, with quick sympathies which required satisfying, as any appetite requires food.  And he had an uncomfortable doubt that these many ever-ready sympathies would rebel if fed on only one diet.

The Picture did not interrupt him in his thoughts, and he let his mind follow his eyes as they wandered over the objects above him on the mantel-shelf.  They all meant something from the past—­a busy, wholesome past which had formed habits of thought and action, habits he could no longer enjoy alone, and which, on the other hand, it was quite impossible for him to share with any one else.  He was no longer to be alone.

Stuart stirred uneasily in his chair and poked at the fire before him.

“Do you remember the day you came to see me,” said the Picture, sentimentally, “and built the fire yourself and lighted some girl’s letters to make it burn?”

“Yes,” said Stuart, “that is, I said that they were some girl’s letters.  It made it more picturesque.  I am afraid they were bills.  I should say I did remember it,” he continued, enthusiastically.  “You wore a black dress and little red slippers with big black rosettes, and you looked as beautiful as—­as night—­as a moonlight night.”

The Picture frowned slightly.