The Widow [To Say Nothing of the Man]. Rowland Helen

she said with a one-cornered smile, "he is envying you – "

      "Undoubtedly!" agreed the bachelor.

      "Envying you," pursued the widow, "your fascinating ways."

      "Oh," cried the bachelor, "then I have got it."

      "What?" said the widow.

      "The winning card. The charm!"

      "Well," said the widow, putting her head on the side and gazing at him speculatively, "you wear a derby hat."

      "I take it off in the house and in the presence of ladies," protested the bachelor.

      "And your shoulders – " began the widow.

      "They are my own!" declared the bachelor.

      "And your – "

      "They also are mine," broke in the bachelor quickly.

      "And besides all that," added the widow, "you have that little bald spot in the middle of your head. And yet – "

      "Go on," said the bachelor, "you have said the worst."

      "I broke an engagement with a nice boy to dine with you to-night."

      "That doesn't prove anything," said the bachelor scornfully. "Maybe he hasn't played the winning card."

      "No, it proves you have," declared the widow.

      "I can't see it!" protested the bachelor.

      "Well, just look at the Greek god over under the palm and then look in the glass at yourself and – work it out."

      "But why look at the Greek god?"

      "Because," said the widow, turning to the mirror and carefully tilting her hat, "he is the nice boy with whom I broke the engagement."

      III

      Why?

      "WHY is a woman?" snapped the bachelor, flinging himself into the big armchair opposite the widow with a challenging glance.

      "Why – why, because," stammered the widow; startled at his sudden appearance.

      "I knew it!" said the bachelor with conviction.

      "And there are lots of other reasons, Mr. Travers."

      "But they aren't reasonable," declared the bachelor doggedly.

      The widow closed her book with a sigh and laid it on the table beside her.

      "Who said they were?" she asked witheringly. "Neither is a woman. Being reasonable is so stupid. It's worse than being suitable or sensible, or – or proper."

      The bachelor lifted his eyebrows in mild astonishment.

      "I thought those were virtues," he protested.

      "They are, Mr. Travers," returned the widow crushingly, "and that's why they're so uninteresting. You might as well ask why is music, or painting, or pâté de foie gras, or champagne, or ice cream, or anything else charming and delicious – "

      "And utterly useless."

      "Of course," agreed the widow, leaning back and thoughtfully twisting the bit of lace she called a handkerchief. "It's the utterly useless things that make the world attractive and pleasant to live in – like flowers and bonbons and politics and love – "

      "And tobacco," added the bachelor reflectively.

      "Woman is the dessert to the feast," went on the widow, "the trimmings on the garment of life, the spice in the pudding. Of course, a man can eat his dinner without dessert or champagne and live his life without kisses or a woman – but somehow he never does."

      "And that's just where he gets into trouble," retorted the bachelor promptly. "If you could only tell," he went on pathetically, "what any one of them was going to do or why she was going to do it, or – "

      "Then it isn't 'Why is a woman?' but 'Why does a woman?' that you wanted to know," interrupted the widow helpfully.

      "That's it!" cried the bachelor, "why does she get off a car backward? Why does she wear a skirt four yards long and then get furious if you step on it? Why does she make a solemn and important engagement without the slightest intention of keeping it? Why does she put on open-work stockings and gaudy shoes and hold her frock as high as she dares – and then annihilate you if you stare at her? Why does she use everything as it was not intended to be used – a hairpin to pick a lock, a buttonhook to open a can, a hairbrush to hammer a nail, a hatpin to rob a letter box, a razor to sharpen a pencil and a cup and saucer to decorate the mantelpiece? Why does she gush over the woman she hates worst and snub the man she is dying to marry? Why does she lick all the glue off a postage stamp and then try to make it stick? Why does she cry at a wedding and act frivolous at a funeral? Why does she put a new feather on her hat and a new kink in her hair, and expect a man to notice it as quickly and be as astonished as he would if she had shaved her head or lost a limb? Why does she seem offended if you don't make love to her, and then get angry if you do? Why does she act kittenish when she's big and dignified, when she's little and old, when she's young and silly, when she's old? And why, oh, why, did you inveigle me into coming down to this miserable pink-and-white house party with the hope of being near you and then utterly ignore me and spend your time flirting with Bobby Taylor, while I sulk about like a lost sheep or run errands – "

      "For Miss Manners?" suggested the widow cuttingly.

      "Miss Manners!" exclaimed the bachelor scornfully.

      "You once thought her very beautiful, Mr. Travers."

      "That's just it!" retorted the bachelor. "Why didn't you let me go on thinking her beautiful – "

      "'As delicate as a sea shell,' wasn't it?"

      "Yes," snapped the bachelor, "and as – hollow!"

      The widow smiled enigmatically.

      "Tell me," she said sympathetically, "what she has done to you."

      "Well, for one thing," complained the bachelor, "she coaxed me out on the piazza last night in the moonlight, and then, when she had talked sentiment for half an hour and lured me to a dark spot and simply goaded me into taking her hand – "

      The widow sat up straight.

      "But you didn't do it, Billy Travers!"

      "Of course I did. It seemed almost an insult not to. And what did she do? She jerked it away, flung herself from me, rose like an outraged queen, turned on me with that 'I-thought-you-were-a-gentleman' air and said – "

      The widow lay back in her chair and laughed.

      "Oh, mercy!" she said, wiping the tears from her eyes when she was able. "Excuse me but – but – how did she look when she did it?"

      "Well," confessed the bachelor, "she did look rather stunning."

      "That's why she did it," explained the widow between laughs. "A woman's reason for doing most things is because she thinks she will look well doing them."

      "Or because she thinks you will look surprised if she does them."

      "Or because she wants to attract your attention."

      "Or to make you feel uncomfortable."

      "Or to astonish you or amuse you or – "

      "Work on your sensibilities, or get on your nerves, or play on your sympathies. But," he went on growing wroth at the recollection, "the idea of a little chit like that – and that isn't the worst. This morning she dragged me out of bed at half-past five to go fishing. Fishing! At this season! I never saw a girl so crazy for fish in my life; and when we had walked four miles to find the right spot and she had been silent long enough for me to feel a nibble at the bait and had helped me with all her might and main to haul in that blessed little fish, do you know what she did?"

      The widow looked up questioningly.

      "She cried because I wanted to bring it home and made me throw it back into the water. That's what she did!"

      The widow sat up straight, with horrified eyes.

      "Well, of course she did!" she exclaimed