“That’s Mrs. Hambleton Durrett,” I heard a woman say.  “Isn’t she beautiful?”

The note of envy struck me sharply—­horribly.  Without waiting to listen to the comment of her companion I hurried out of the building into the cold, white sunlight that threw into bold relief the mediocre houses of the street.  Here was everyday life, but the portrait had suggested that which might have been—­might be yet.  What did I mean by this?  I didn’t know, I didn’t care to define it,—­a renewal of her friendship, of our intimacy.  My being cried out for it, and in the world in which I lived we took what we wanted—­why not this?  And yet for an instant I stood on the sidewalk to discover that in new situations I was still subject to unaccountable qualms of that thing I had been taught to call “conscience”; whether it were conscience or not must be left to the psychologists.  I was married—­terrible word! the shadow of that Institution fell athwart me as the sun went under a cloud; but the sun came out again as I found myself walking toward the Durrett house reflecting that numbers of married men called on Nancy, and that what I had in mind in regard to her was nothing that the court would have pronounced an infringement upon the Institution....  I reached her steps, the long steps still guarded by the curved wrought-iron railings reminiscent of Nathaniel’s day, though the “portals” were gone, a modern vestibule having replaced them; I rang the bell; the butler, flung open the doors.  He, at any rate, did not seem surprised to see me here, he greeted me with respectful cordiality and led me, as a favoured guest, through the big drawing-room into the salon.

“Mr. Paret, Madam!”

Nancy, rose quickly from the low chair where she sat cutting the pages of a French novel.

“Hugh!” she exclaimed.  “I’m out if anyone calls.  Bring tea,” she added to the man, who retired.  For a moment we stood gazing at each other, questioningly.  “Well, won’t you sit down and stay awhile?” she asked.

I took a chair on the opposite side of the fire.

“I just thought I’d drop in,” I said.

“I am flattered,” said Nancy, “that a person so affaire should find time to call on an old friend.  Why, I thought you never left your office until seven o’clock.”

“I don’t, as a rule, but to-day I wasn’t particularly busy, and I thought I’d go round to the Art Museum and look at your portrait.”

“More flattery!  Hugh, you’re getting quite human.  What do you think of it?”

“I like it.  I think it quite remarkable.”

“Have a cigarette!”

I took one.

“So you really like it,” she said.

“Don’t you?”

“Oh, I think it’s a trifle—­romantic,” she replied “But that’s Czesky.  He made me quite cross,—­the feminine presentation of America, the spoiled woman who has shed responsibilities and is beginning to have a glimpse—­just a little one—­of the emptiness of it all.”