n 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.

"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.

"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 loss of self-respect?"

"And of yo