It was nearly twelve o'clock that night when those two people went up to their neglected couches—nothing but a widow would have stood the shock of such impropriety among the critical of her sex; but she didn't care a mite.
Early the next morning, which was Sunday, these two persons were seen coming out of the little cubby-houses under the beach in the queerest sort of dresses—I cannot describe them, because, up to this time, beach flirtations have been forbidden subjects with me.
But they came out on the beach, clasped hands, and walked right into the biggest waves they could find.
What she said to him there I cannot tell, but by and by they came back to the hotel, the sneakiest-looking creatures you ever set your two eyes on.
I don't know when it was that she brought him to the point, but the widow had netted him so close that he didn't even try to flounder.
That night there was sacred music in the hotel parlor, and, somehow, a minister of the Gospel dropped in, with a white cravat on, and waited for something, looking as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.
He hadn't been there long before the strange gentleman came in with a swallow-tailed coat on, a white vest and cravat, with ball-gloves on his hands.
Hanging on to his arm was that widow, in a long, white dress, that streamed after her in windrows, and with a shower of lace falling over her.
The minister got up, and opened his book. The people hanging about hushed their talk, and in less than ten minutes a third gold ring was chucked over the other two that weighed down the widow's finger, and she walked off with number three as proud as a white peacock.
It took this widow just two days and part of a night to spring her traps and draw her hooks—but, then, she was a widow.