"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'm 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
mantle-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.