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

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СКАЧАТЬ the bachelor, "and packing all the family trunks and putting out your pipe every time a female member of the family approaches and eating dishes you don't want and running round doing household errands, a man hasn't got time – "

      "It doesn't!" declared the widow. "It has nothing to do with morals or with selfishness. Some of the most selfish men in the world are those whom a poor little woman will work her fingers to the bone to support, simply because when she comes home at night after her labors her husband puts his arms around her and tells her how sad it makes him feel to see her struggle so, and how young and beautiful she keeps in spite of it all and orders her to lie down and let him run out and fetch her some ice cream and read to her. A man with that sort of way with him can get anything on earth out of a woman and then make her eternally grateful to him. Look at the husbands who slave all day earning money for their wives to spend and go home tired out and grouchy and never get a word of thanks. Yet, a man can stay out six nights in the week, and if he will come home on the seventh with a kiss and a compliment and a box of candy and any old lie and a speech about sympathy and all that, a nice sensible wife will forgive and forget – and adore him."

      "But are there any nice sensible wives?" asked the bachelor plaintively.

      "Have you finished your cigarette, Mr. Travers?" inquired the widow coolly.

      "Because if there are, that is just what I am looking – "

      "If you have," pursued the widow, "I think we had better go."

      The bachelor rose with alacrity. "I think so, too," he acquiesced, pleasantly. "That Greek god over yonder under the palm has been staring at me as if he contemplated murder for the last half hour."

      The widow blushed.

      "Perhaps," 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.

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