"
"You must wear the gown they are going to give you at Oxford," said
the Picture, smiling placidly. "The one Aunt Lucy was telling me
about. Why do they give you a gown?" she asked. "It seems such an odd
thing to do."
"The gown comes with the degree, I believe," said Stuart.
"But why do they give _you_ a degree?" persisted the Picture;
"you never studied at Oxford, did you?"
Stuart moved slightly in his chair and shook his head. "I thought I
told you," he said, gently. "No, I never studied there. I wrote some
books on--things, and they liked them."
"Oh, yes, I remember now, you did tell me," said the Picture; "and I
told Aunt Lucy about it, and said we would be in England during the
season when you got your degree, and she said you must be awfully
clever to get it. You see--she does appreciate you, and you always
treat her so distantly."
"Do I?" said Stuart, quietly. "I'm sorry."
"Will you have your portrait painted in it?" asked the Picture.
"In what?"
"In the gown. You are not listening," said the Picture, reproachfully.
"You ought to. Aunt Lucy says it's a beautiful shade of red silk, and
very long. Is it?"
"I don't know," said Stuart. He shook his head, and dropping his chin
into his hands, stared coldly down into the fire. He tried to persuade
himself that he had been vainglorious, and that he had given too much
weight to the honor which the University of Oxford would bestow upon
him; that he had taken the degree too seriously, and that the
Picture's view of it was the view of the rest of the world.
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