o be made
by hand. He can't be turned out by machinery like a chromo or a
lithograph. And, besides, if you want a ready-made one you can always
find plenty of them on the second-hand counter----"

"On the--where?"

"Where they keep the widowers," explained the widow. "If a woman isn't
interested or clever enough to manufacture her own husband, she can
always find some man who has been modeled by another woman. And she has
the satisfaction of knowing exactly what she's getting and just what to
expect. The only trouble is that, in case she makes a mistake in her
choice, she never has a chance to make him over. He has been cut down
and relined and faced and patched already to his limit."

"And his seams are apt to be shiny and his temper frayed at the edges,"
declared the bachelor.

"And you have to be very sure that he fits your disposition."

"And matches your taste."

"And that he won't pinch on the bank account."

"Nor stretch on the truth."

"And that the other woman hasn't botched him."

"And even then he's a hand-me-down--and may shrink or run or--"

"Oh, widowers don't shrink or run," retorted the widow. "Matrimony is a
habit with them, and they feel like a cab-horse out of harness without
it. They long to feel the bit between their teeth and the gentle hand on
the reins----"

"And the basting threads," added the bachelor. "I wonder what it's
like," he went on, meditatively.

"You'll never know," said the widow, setting her cup on the tabourette.
"You're too old."

"Yes, I've got my second teeth," sighed the bachelor.

"And your bald spot."

"And I've sown my second crop of wild oats."

"And yet," said the widow leaning her chin in her hand and looking up
thoughtfully under her purple feather, "it would be a great triumph----"

"I won't be put in harness!" protested the bachelor.

The widow considered him gravely.

"There's plenty of material in you," she declared. "You could be trimmed
off and cut down and----"

"I'm too tough to cut!"

"And relined."

"I'm almost moth-eaten now!" moaned the bachelor.

The widow leaned forward and scrutinized him with interest.

"It would be a pity," she said slowly, "to let the wrong woman botch
you. The next time you propose to me," she added thoughtfully, "I think
I'll----"

"Did I ever propose to you?" broke in the bachelor with real fright.

"Oh, lots of times," said the widow; "it's almost a habit now."

"But you refused me!" pleaded the b