"Is one of them smelling violets all day, when there aren't any 'round; and feeling a funny jump in your throat every time you catch sight of a violet hat; and suddenly discovering you have written, 'Send me eight quarts of violets and a widow,' instead of 'eight quarts of gasoline and a patent pump'?"
The widow leaned so far over her soup that her eyes were completely shaded by the brim of her violet hat.
"Yes," she said gently, "loss of reason is one of them—and loss of memory."
"And loss of sleep?"
"And loss of common sense."
"And of your powers of conversation."
"Nonsense!" cried the bachelor, "a man in love can say more fool things——"
The widow put down her spoon emphatically.
"A man in love," she contradicted, "can't talk at all? It's not the things he says, but the things he isn't able to say; the things that choke right up in his throat——"