added musingly, "that I knew how to patch it up."

"That's right!" retorted the bachelor. "Try to revive his interest in
champagne by offering it to him--the morning after. What he needs, my
dear lady, is--ice. When he has had a little ice and a little tabasco
sauce----"

"He may want more champagne?" asked the widow hopefully.

"Yes," replied the bachelor, swinging his cane cheerfully, "but not from
the same bottle. Will women ever learn," he mused, "that it is as
impossible to revive a man's interest in a woman he has completely
gotten over loving as to make him want stale champagne with all the
fizz gone out of it?"

"I don't see why," said the widow. "A woman often falls in love with the
same man twice."

"Because she never falls too much in love with him--once," explained the
bachelor.

The widow's chatelaine rattled indignantly.

"Nonsense!" she cried, "A woman's love is always stronger and deeper
than a man's."

"But it isn't so effervescent. She is a natural miser and she hoards her
feelings. A man flings his sentiment about like a prodigal and naturally
when it's all gone--there isn't any left."

"Is that when he gets the 'tired feeling?'" inquired the widow
sympathetically.

"Yes," said the bachelor, "and nothing is worse than waking up in the
morning with a dark brown taste in your mouth--to find the woman
standing before you offering you more champagne. But she always does. A
woman never seems to know when the logical conclusion of a love affair
has arrived. She clings with all her strength to the tattered remnants
of sentiment and shuts her eyes and tries to make believe it isn't
morning, when she ought to go away----"

"And let him sleep it off," suggested the widow.

"That's it," agreed the bachelor, "I once knew a man who was infatuated
with a woman who used attar of roses on her gloves and things. When he
woke up--I beg your pardon--after they had broken off, he never could
abide the smell of roses."

"I suppose," said the widow, holding her muff against her cheek
sentimentally, "it reminded him of all the tender little tete-a-tetes
and moonlight nights and the way her hair curled about her forehead and
the way she used to smile at him, and of her gloves and her ruffles and
the color of her eyes and----"

"It didn't!" said the bachelor emphatically. "It nauseated him. It's the
woman who always remembers the pleasant part of a love affair. A man
remembers only--the next morning--and th