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

a long pause, apparently addressing the front lawn or the blue heavens, "that it's that same sort of logic that incites a woman to play for a man until she catches him – and then throw him overboard. O Lord," he continued, glancing at the sky devoutly, "why couldn't you have made them nice and sensible?"

      The widow took up her book with disdain.

      "'Nice and sensible'" she repeated witheringly. "Just think how it would feel to be called 'nice and sensible!' I wish," she added, turning to her novel with an air of boredom, "that you would go and – talk to Ethel Manners."

      The bachelor eyed her narrowly.

      "I guess I will," he said finally. "She seems more interesting – now that you've explained her."

      The widow stopped in the middle of a paragraph and looked up.

      "And by Jove!" went on the bachelor reminiscently, turning to the window again, "she did look dreamy in a sunbonnet and that little short skirt this morning. She has adorable feet, you know."

      The widow closed her book with a sharp snap, keeping her fingers between the pages.

      "I know, Mr. Travers; but how did you know?"

      "I looked at them," confessed the bachelor frankly, "and her ankles – "

      The widow's mouth closed in a straight line.

      "I'm afraid, Mr. Travers," she remarked frigidly, "that you are not a fit companion for a young girl like Ethel."

      "I'm not equal to her," grinned the bachelor.

      "No, you're not. She's a nice, sensible girl and – "

      "Do you hate her very much?"

      "Hate her?" The widow's eyes opened with astonishment.

      "You called her 'nice and sensible.'"

      "Bobby Taylor's looking for you, Marion," called Miss Manners, glancing in at the door suddenly.

      "Well, goodby. I'm off," said the bachelor, following the swish of Miss Manners's skirts with his eyes, as she hurried away down the hall.

      "Sit down, Mr. Travers!" commanded the widow in an awful tone.

      At that moment a buoyant young man poked his head in at the door.

      "Go way, Bobby," said the widow. "Mr. Travers and I are discussing – er – psychology."

      "Ugh!" remarked Bobby, dutifully withdrawing, "why do you do it, if it hurts?"

      The bachelor looked up at the widow under the tail of his eyelid.

      "Does it hurt?" he asked.

      But the widow's underlip was curled into a distinct pout and her eyes met his reproachfully. She dabbed them effectively with the end of her lace handkerchief.

      "Of c-course it does," she said with a little choke in her voice, "when you have been here three whole days and have never noticed me and have spent every minute of your time trailing around after that – that – little – "

      "But wasn't that what you invited me for?" exclaimed the bachelor helplessly.

      "Of course it was," acknowledged the widow, "but – but I didn't think you'd do it."

      The bachelor gazed at her a moment in blank amazement. Then a gleam of enlightenment came into his eyes and he leaned over and caught her fingers.

      "Look here, Marion," he said gently, "you invited me down here to fling that girl at my head. If you didn't want me to fall in love with her, what did you want?"

      "I wanted you to get enough of her!" explained the widow, smiling through her lace handkerchief.

      "Well – I have. I've got too much!" vowed the bachelor fervently.

      The widow laughed softly and complacently.

      "That's just what I knew would happen," she said, closing her novel and flinging it onto the couch.

      Then she added, looking up quizzically:

      "A woman always has a reason – if you can only find out what it is."

      IV

      The Widow's Rival

      "WHY," said the widow, gazing thoughtfully at the ruby-faced woman with the gigantic waist-line, who sat beside the meek little man on the bench opposite, "do men marry – those?"