n if they should be tried, wouldn't alter things much. As long as two
people can stand one another they will cling together anyhow, and if
they can't they won't anyhow; and whether it's a run out lease or a
divorce or prussic acid that separates them doesn't make much
difference. Custom, not the wedding certificate, is the tie that binds
most of us. The savage doesn't need any laws to hold him to the woman of
his choice. Habit does it; and if habit doesn't the woman will!"

The widow sighed and leaned back in her chair.

"I suppose so," she said, "but it seems dreadfully dreary."

"What seems dreadfully dreary?" inquired the bachelor.

"Matrimony," replied the widow solemnly. "It IS like those old chairs
and pipes and shoes and things you were speaking of; it's full of holes
and breaks and bare spots, and it won't always work--but there's nothing
that will quite take the place of it."

"Nothing," said the bachelor, promptly. "That's why I want to--"

The widow rose quickly and shook out her skirts.

"Now, don't begin that, Billy," she said, trying to be severe, "you're
too old!"

"Oh, well, I'm still in good repair," protested the bachelor.

The widow shook her head.

"All the varnish is worn off your ideals," she objected, "and the hinges
of your enthusiasm creak and you've got a bare spot on the top of your
head, and----"

[Illustration: "NO," said the widow, "you're shop-worn." _Page 149_]

"But I've most of the modern improvements," broke in the bachelor,
desperately, "and I'm not second-hand, anyway!"

"No," said the widow, looking him over critically, "you're shop-worn.
But, originally, you were an attractive article, and you're genuine and
good style and well preserved, and if----"

"Well?" The bachelor looked up expectantly.

"If there WERE such a thing as 'trial marriages'--" The widow hesitated
again.

"You'd give me a trial?" asked the bachelor eagerly.

"Oh," said the widow, studying the toes of her red slippers, "it
wouldn't be--such a trial!"

XI

THE WIDOW'S DEAL.

"WHO is the ideal woman?" asked the widow pensively, laying down her
embroidery hoop and clasping her hands behind her head.

The bachelor blew a smoke ring reflectively and squinted through it at
the widow.

"You've got powder on your nose!" he remarked disapprovingly.

The widow snatched up a diaphanous lace handkerchief and began rubbing
her nose.

"Have I got too much on?" she asked anxiously.

"Any,