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.