"Yes," she replied, "it isn't putting powder on your nose or rouge on your cheeks or perfume on your petticoats or a broad 'A' on your accent that shocks a man, but putting them on inartistically. It isn't the things you do but the things you overdo that offend masculine taste. It's the 'over-done' woman that a man hates—the woman who is over-dressed or overly made-up, or overly cordial or overly flattering, or overly clever, or overly good, or overly anything. He doesn't want to see how the wheels go around at the toilet table or in a woman's head or her heart; and it's the subtle, illusive little thing that he doesn't notice until he steps on her and finds her looking up adoringly at him under his nose that he idealizes."
"And marries," added the bachelor conclusively.
"And then forgets," sighed the widow, "while he goes off to amuse himself with the obvious person with peroxide hair and a straight-front figure. I don't know," she added tentatively, "that it's much fun being an ideal woman."
"Who said you were?" demanded the bachelor suddenly.
The widow started and turned pink to her chin.
"Oh—nobody—that is, several people, Mr. Travers."
"Had you refused them?" asked the bachelor thoughtfully.
The widow blushed a deeper pink and bent over her pale green rose so low that the bachelor could not see her eyes.
"Why—that is—I don't see what that has to do with it."
"It has everything to do with," replied the bachelor positively.