"There are millions of them!" declared the widow, sipping her consommé daintily.
"Those mediæval fellows had such an advantage over us," complained the bachelor. "When a chap loved a girl, all he had to do to prove it was to get another chap to say he didn't, and then to break the other chap's head. That was a sure sign."
"And it was so easy," remarked the widow.
"Yes," agreed the bachelor, enthusiastically. "Is there anybody whose head you particularly want broken? I feel remarkably like fighting."
"Of course, you do," said the widow sympathetically. "The fighting spirit is born in every man. But duelling isn't a sign of love; it's a sign of egotism, hurt pride, the spirit of competition, the dog-in-the-manger feeling. Besides, it's out of fashion."
"Well," sighed the bachelor, "then I suppose I shall have to save your life or—die for you."
"You might," said the widow, nodding encouragingly, "but it wouldn't prove anything—except that you had a sense of the picturesque and dramatic. Suppose you did save my life; wouldn't you do as much for any man, woman or child, or even any little stray dog who might happen to fall out of a boat or be caught in a fire, or get under the feet of a runaway?"
"I've got it!" cried the bachelor, "I'll write a book of poems and dedicate them to you."
The widow toyed with her spoon.
"You've done that to—several girls before," she remarked ungratefully.