"That's it!" cried the bachelor. "How is a man going to tell when he's in love when he feels the same way—every time?"
"Have you forgotten your soup?" asked the widow, glancing at the untouched plate in front of the bachelor.
The bachelor picked up his spoon languidly.
"No," he said, "but——"
"Because if you had," said the widow, "it would have been a proof."
"A—what?"
"A proof," repeated the widow. "Forgetting to eat your meals is the first sign of love. A man may write poetry and swear love by all the planets separately; but if he sits down opposite you an hour afterward and orders mutton chops and gravy and devours them to the last crumb, either he doesn't mean what he says or doesn't know what he is talking about. When he lets his breakfast grow cold and forgets to go out to his lunch and loses his interest in his dinner it's a sure sign of love."
"It might be a sign of dyspepsia," suggested the bachelor doubtfully.
"Oh, well," proceeded the widow, sipping her soup leisurely, "there are other signs besides a lost appetite."
The bachelor looked hopeful.