"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.
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