alk 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."

I was stirred.

"Then why do you accept it, if it isn't you?" I demanded. "One doesn't
refuse Czesky's canvases," she replied. "And what difference does it
make? It amused him, and he was fairly subtle about it. Only those who
are looking for romance, like yo