WIDOWS
A WIDOW is a fascinating being with the flavor of maturity, the spice of experience, the piquancy of novelty, the tang of practiced coquetry, and the halo of one man's approval.
Second mourning is that interesting period, at which a widow continues to weep with one eye while she begins to flirt with the other.
When a widow comes in at the door, a debutante's chances fly out of the window.
No matter how many wrinkles a widow may have in her face, she always has enough at her fingertips to offset them.
Even a dead husband gives a widow some advantage over a spinster; the very debts her husband left afford her something to boast about to the unmarried woman who has only her own board bills to pay.
A girl takes a man for better or for worse—but a widow merely takes him for granted.
Girls are the milk and honey which sweeten a man's life; widows, the caviare and wine which relieve its flatness and give it spice and piquancy.
A girl knows exactly what kind of man she wants to marry; but a widow knows all the kinds she doesn't want to marry, and usually makes a safe selection by the wise process of elimination.
A widow's chief consolation in remarrying is probably that she finds it less exhausting to sit up and wait for one man to come home evenings, than to sit up and wait for a lot of them to go home.
Widows have all the honor and glory without any of the trials of matrimony; a live husband may be a necessity, but a dead one is a luxury.
Matrimony is the price of love—widowhood, the rebate.
