"That is nice to listen to. Nice girls, that is, girls who are willing to sacrifice to an end that would help both, are, to say the least, hard to find."
"Yes, in a sense; but there are plenty. And all want husbands. Of course, when you have been widowed, grass-widowed, it's different...."
"Well, yes; but I see no reason, if she is the right kind of girl, why she cannot re-marry and be happy in the end."
"Oh, you don't," she essayed. "Well, there is. A woman is never regarded as the same. The looks she gets are not like the ones bestowed upon her when she, or before she married. They are looks—looks that are not honest," she sighed. He was silent.
"And the men are the cause of it. All of it. Sometimes I hate men."
He saw her now, calmly. She was uneasy under the look he gave her. And then he was silent again. She went on:
"Of course, there are some that are different. Yourself, for instance."
"In what way?"
"So many I hardly like to say. So unassuming, for one. And then you—oh I won't say it."
"Please do."