venue beside the bachelor, "that the man who is most
in love is most apt to get over it suddenly?"

The bachelor withdrew his eyes from the pretty pair of ankles across the
street and glanced down at the widow with the lenient smile of superior
wisdom.

"Why is it," he retorted, "that the man who drinks the most champagne at
dinner has the worst headache next morning?"

"That isn't any explanation at all, Mr. Travers." The widow's
chatelaine jingled impatiently. "Champagne is intoxicating."

"So is love."

"Champagne leaves you with an--an all-gone feeling."

"And love leaves you with--'that tired feeling'."

"Not me," said the widow promptly, "I always feel exhilarated
after--after----"

"Afterwards," finished the bachelor helpfully. "But you're a woman. It's
the man who has the 'tired feeling'."

"What is it like?" persisted the widow.

"Well," the bachelor flipped his cane thoughtfully, "did you ever eat a
fourteen course dinner, and then go to Sherry's afterward for supper
and then go to Delmonico's for a snack and to Rector's for----"

"I've been through it," sighed the widow.

"You didn't want any more, did you?" asked the bachelor sympathetically.
"That's the way a man feels when he's had enough of love--or a woman."

"But--but love isn't indigestible."

"Too much of anything--love or dinner or champagne--is apt to take away
your appetite. And too much of a woman is sure to make you hate the
sight of her."

The widow's chatelaine was dancing madly in the afternoon sunlight.

"I don't suppose," she said witheringly, "that it would be possible for
a woman to get too much of a man!"

"No," agreed the bachelor cheerfully, as he squinted at another pair of
pretty ankles, "women are sentimental topers. They sip their wine or
their sentiment slowly and comfortably; they don't gulp it down like a
man. That's why the man has usually finished the bottle before the woman
has touched her glass. He is ready to turn out the lights and put an end
to the affair just as she has begun to get really interested. But," and
the bachelor turned suddenly upon the widow, "who is the man? Show him
to me!" and he brought his cane down fiercely on the sidewalk.

"Wh-what man?" asked the widow, turning pink to the tips of her ears.

"The man who has jilt--gotten over it. I don't see how it's possible,"
he added thoughtfully, "with you."

"Me!" The widow's voice was as chill and crisp as the autumn air. "I
wish," she