"I see," added the bachelor, "and won't keep him awake nights," he added.
The widow nodded.
"Nor give him a bitter taste in the mouth in the morning. A good wife is like a dose of medicine—hard to swallow, but truly helpful. The girls who wear frills and high heels and curly pompadours are like the salad with the most dressing and garnishing, likely to be too rich and spicy, while the plain little thing in the serge skirt, who never powders her nose, may prove as sweet and wholesome—as—as home-made pudding."
"Or—home-made pickles," suggested the bachelor with wry face.
The widow shook her parasol at him admonishingly.
"Don't do that!" cried the bachelor.
"Do what?" inquired the widow in astonishment.
"Wave your frills in my eyes! I had just made up my mind to propose to Miss Gunning and——"
The widow sat up perfectly straight.
"Do you really admire—a marble slab, Mr. Travers?"