The Widow [To Say Nothing of the Man]

by Helen Rowland

  VIII

  AFTER LOVE----(?)

  "WHY is it," asked the widow, swinging her chatelaine pensively as shestrolled down the avenue beside the bachelor, "that the man who is mostin love is most apt to get over it suddenly?"

  The bachelor withdrew his eyes from the pretty pair of ankles across thestreet and glanced down at the widow with the lenient smile of superiorwisdom.

  "Why is it," he retorted, "that the man who drinks the most champagne atdinner has the worst headache next morning?"

  "That isn't any explanation at all, Mr. Travers." The widow'schatelaine jingled impatiently. "Champagne is intoxicating."

  "So is love."

  "Champagne leaves you with an--an all-gone feeling."

  "And love leaves you with--'that tired feeling'."

  "Not me," said the widow promptly, "I always feel exhilaratedafter--after----"

  "Afterwards," finished the bachelor helpfully. "But you're a woman. It'sthe man who has the 'tired feeling'."

  "What is it like?" persisted the widow.

  "Well," the bachelor flipped his cane thoughtfully, "did you ever eat afourteen course dinner, and then go to Sherry's afterward for supperand then go to Delmonico's for a snack and to Rector's for----"

  "I've been through it," sighed the widow.

  "You didn't want any more, did you?" asked the bachelor sympathetically."That's the way a man feels when he's had enough of love--or a woman."

  "But--but love isn't indigestible."

  "Too much of anything--love or dinner or champagne--is apt to take awayyour appetite. And too much of a woman is sure to make you hate thesight of her."

  The widow's chatelaine was dancing madly in the afternoon sunlight.

  "I don't suppose," she said witheringly, "that it would be possible fora woman to get too much of a man!"

  "No," agreed the bachelor cheerfully, as he squinted at another pair ofpretty ankles, "women are sentimental topers. They sip their wine ortheir sentiment slowly and comfortably; they don't gulp it down like aman. That's why the man has usually finished the bottle before the womanhas touched her glass. He is ready to turn out the lights and put an endto the affair just as she has begun to get really interested. But," andthe bachelor turned suddenly upon the widow, "who is the man? Show himto me!" and he brought his cane down fiercely on the sidewalk.

  "Wh-what man?" asked the widow, turning pink to the tips of her ears.

  "The man who has jilt--gotten over it. I don't see how it's possible,"he added thoughtfully, "with you."

  "Me!" The widow's voice was as chill and crisp as the autumn air. "Iwish," she added musingly, "that I knew how to patch it up."

  "That's right!" retorted the bachelor. "Try to revive his interest inchampagne by offering it to him--the morning after. What he needs, mydear lady, is--ice. When he has had a little ice and a little tabascosauce----"

  "He may want more champagne?" asked the widow hopefully.

  "Yes," replied the bachelor, swinging his cane cheerfully, "but not fromthe same bottle. Will women ever learn," he mused, "that it is asimpossible to revive a man's interest in a woman he has completelygotten over loving as to make him want stale champagne with all thefizz gone out of it?"

  "I don't see why," said the widow. "A woman often falls in love with thesame man twice."

  "Because she never falls too much in love with him--once," explained thebachelor.

  The widow's chatelaine rattled indignantly.

  "Nonsense!" she cried, "A woman's love is always stronger and deeperthan a man's."

  "But it isn't so effervescent. She is a natural miser and she hoards herfeelings. A man flings his sentiment about like a prodigal and naturallywhen it's all gone--there isn't any left."

  "Is that when he gets the 'tired feeling?'" inquired the widowsympathetically.

  "Yes," said the bachelor, "and nothing is worse than waking up in themorning with a dark brown taste in your mouth--to find the womanstanding before you offering you more champagne. But she always does. Awoman never seems to know when the logical conclusion of a love affairhas arrived. She clings with all her strength to the tattered remnantsof sentiment and shuts her eyes and tries to make believe it isn'tmorning, when she ought to go away----"

  "And let him sleep it off," suggested the widow.

  "That's it," agreed the bachelor, "I once knew a man who was infatuatedwith a woman who used attar of roses on her gloves and things. When hewoke up--I beg your pardon--after they had broken off, he never couldabide the smell of roses."

  "I suppose," said the widow, holding her muff against her cheeksentimentally, "it reminded him of all the tender little tete-a-tetesand moonlight nights and the way her hair curled about her forehead andthe way she used to smile at him, and of her gloves and her ruffles andthe color of her eyes and----"

  "It didn't!" said the bachelor emphatically. "It nauseated him. It's thewoman who always remembers the pleasant part of a love affair. A manremembers only--the next morning--and the hard time he had getting outof it."

  "And the headache," added the widow.

  "And the 'tired feeling'."

  "And the other woman," suggested the widow contemptuously.

  "Yes," agreed the bachelor, "the other woman, of course. But," he addedthoughtfully, "if a woman could only take the hint in time----"

  "What time?" asked the widow. "When a man begins to be late for hisengagements?"

  "Yes; or to forget them altogether."

  "And to make excuses and enlarge on his rush of business."

  "And to seem abstracted during the conversation."

  "And to stop noticing her jokes or her frocks or the way she does herhair."

  "And to stay away from places where he could be sure to meet her."

  "But," protested the widow, "they always make such plausible excuses."

  "Nothing," said the bachelor confidently, "will keep a man away from awoman except a lack of interest in her----"

  "Or an interest in another woman," added the widow promptly. "But," sheconcluded tentatively, "there ought to be a cure for it."

  "For what? The other woman?"

  "That tired feeling, Mr. Travers."

  "There isn't any cure," replied the bachelor promptly, "but there's agood preventive. When you were a very little girl," he continuedpatronizingly, "and liked jam----"

  "I like it now!" declared the widow.

  "How did your mother manage to preserve your interest in it?"

  "She took the jam away, Mr. Travers, and put it on the top shelfalways--just before I had had enough."

  "Well, that's the way to preserve a man's interest in a woman," declaredthe bachelor. "Deal yourself out to him in homeopathic doses. Putyourself on the top shelf, where it is hard for him to get at you. Feedhim sugar out of a teaspoon; don't pass him the whole sugar bowl. Thenhe will be always begging for more. One only wants more of anything thatone can't get enough of, you know. Now, if a woman would use herjudgment----"

  "As if a woman in love had any judgment!" mocked the widow.

  "That's it!" sighed the bachelor, "She never has. She just lays thewhole feast before the man, flings all her charms at his head at once,surfeits him with the champagne of her wit and lets him eat all thesugar off his cake right away. The love affair springs up like amushroom and--"

  "Oh, well," interrupted the widow impatiently, "I like mushroom loveaffairs. I like a man who can fling himself headlong into an affairand----"

  "Of course you do!" sighed the bachelor, "every woman does. The sensibleand temperate man who will love her all his life----"

  "A little!" said the widow contemptuously.

  "Well, a little is enough," retorted the bachelor, "at a time."

  "That depends," said the widow, "on how many times--one is loved. Thereare some women who are so saving of their sugar and frugal with theirsentiment that they never know the real joy of a grand passion or ofhaving a man love them properly. What's the use of having money if youare always going to keep it in t
he bank?" she added conclusively.

  The bachelor looked down at her and said nothing. There was a smile ofhopeless resignation in his eyes.

  "Here we are!" cried the widow, suddenly stopping in front of a tallbrownstone house and holding out her hand politely. "So glad tohave----"

  "Aren't you going to invite me in?" demanded the bachelor, inastonishment.

  The widow lifted her eyebrows in faint surprise.

  "What," she asked sweetly, "after----"

  "You broke an engagement with me last night!" blurted out the bachelor,looking the widow straight in the eyes. But the widow shifted her gazeto the park across the street and swung her chatelaine indifferently.

  "And you weren't 'at home' to me the day before yesterday and you wereout of town for a week before that; and you promised me that thisafternoon----"

  "Did I?" asked the widow, looking up innocently.

  "Yes, you did!" declared the bachelor.

  "Oh, well," laughed the widow, as she tripped up the steps with a waveof her muff, "I was only showing you the sugar bowl; but I didn't meanyou could have another spoonful; besides," she added, turning round andtalking through the tunnel in her muff, "there's somebody waitinginside."

  "Who?" demanded the bachelor.

  "The man with the 'tired feeling'," said the widow.

  "But," began the bachelor in a puzzled voice, "if he is tired of--ofyou----"

  "Me!" the widow laughed. "He isn't tired of me, Mr. Travers. It's--theother woman. He came to me for--for----"

  "A bracer?" suggested the bachelor. "What are you going to give him?" headded.

  "Vinegar, mustard, pepper, salt," said the widow counting off thebuttons of her coat, child fashion.

  The bachelor looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

  "Anything else?" he asked.

  "A little--ice," said the widow, gazing out over the park.

  "Anything else?" persisted the bachelor.

  The widow studied her muff musingly.

  "Oh--I don't know," she said, doubtfully.

  "Any--sugar?" demanded the bachelor.

  The widow shook her head smilingly.

  "No," she said, "I'm saving that for another----"

  "Another!"

  "Another time," said the widow ambiguously as she let the door closesoftly behind her.