Stuart's conscience troubled him for the next few moments, and he
endeavored to make up for his impatience of the moment before, by
telling the Picture how particularly well she was looking.

"It seems almost selfish to keep it all to myself," he mused.

"You don't mean," inquired the Picture, with tender anxiety, "that you
want any one else here, do you? I'm sure I could be content to spend
every evening like this. I've had enough of going out and talking to
people I don't care about. Two seasons," she added, with the superior
air of one who has put away childish things, "was quite enough of it for
me."

"Well, I never took it as seriously as that," said Stuart, "but, of
course, I don't want any one else here to spoil our evening. It is
perfect."

He assured himself that it _was_ perfect, but he wondered what was the
loyal thing for a married couple to do when the conversation came to a
dead stop. And did the conversation come to a stop because they
preferred to sit in silent sympathy and communion, or because they had
nothing interesting to talk about? Stuart doubted if silence was the
truest expression of the most perfect confidence and sympathy. He
generally found when he was interested, that either he or his companion
talked all the time. It was when he was bored that he sat silent. But it
was probably different with married people. Possibly they thought of
each other during these pauses, and of their own affairs and interests,
and then he asked himself how many interests could one fairly retain
with which the other had nothing to do?