The Widow [To Say Nothing of the Man] Page 3

  III

  WHY?

  "WHY is a woman?" snapped the bachelor, flinging himself into the bigarmchair opposite the widow with a challenging glance.

  "Why--why, because," stammered the widow; startled at his suddenappearance.

  "I knew it!" said the bachelor with conviction.

  "And there are lots of other reasons, Mr. Travers."

  "But they aren't reasonable," declared the bachelor doggedly.

  The widow closed her book with a sigh and laid it on the table besideher.

  "Who said they were?" she asked witheringly. "Neither is a woman. Beingreasonable is so stupid. It's worse than being suitable or sensible,or--or proper."

  The bachelor lifted his eyebrows in mild astonishment.

  "I thought those were virtues," he protested.

  "They are, Mr. Travers," returned the widow crushingly, "and that's whythey're so uninteresting. You might as well ask why is music, orpainting, or pate de foie gras, or champagne, or ice cream, or anythingelse charming and delicious--"

  "And utterly useless."

  "Of course," agreed the widow, leaning back and thoughtfully twistingthe bit of lace she called a handkerchief. "It's the utterly uselessthings that make the world attractive and pleasant to live in--likeflowers and bonbons and politics and love--"

  "And tobacco," added the bachelor reflectively.

  "Woman is the dessert to the feast," went on the widow, "the trimmingson the garment of life, the spice in the pudding. Of course, a man caneat his dinner without dessert or champagne and live his life withoutkisses or a woman--but somehow he never does."

  "And that's just where he gets into trouble," retorted the bachelorpromptly. "If you could only tell," he went on pathetically, "what anyone of them was going to do or why she was going to do it, or----"

  "Then it isn't 'Why _is_ a woman?' but 'Why _does_ a woman?' that youwanted to know," interrupted the widow helpfully.

  "That's it!" cried the bachelor, "why does she get off a car backward?Why does she wear a skirt four yards long and then get furious if youstep on it? Why does she make a solemn and important engagement withoutthe slightest intention of keeping it? Why does she put on open-workstockings and gaudy shoes and hold her frock as high as she dares--andthen annihilate you if you stare at her? Why does she use everything asit was not intended to be used--a hairpin to pick a lock, a buttonhookto open a can, a hairbrush to hammer a nail, a hatpin to rob a letterbox, a razor to sharpen a pencil and a cup and saucer to decorate themantelpiece? Why does she gush over the woman she hates worst and snubthe man she is dying to marry? Why does she lick all the glue off apostage stamp and then try to make it stick? Why does she cry at awedding and act frivolous at a funeral? Why does she put a new featheron her hat and a new kink in her hair, and expect a man to notice it asquickly and be as astonished as he would if she had shaved her head orlost a limb? Why does she seem offended if you don't make love to her,and then get angry if you do? Why does she act kittenish when she's bigand dignified, when she's little and old, when she's young and silly,when she's old? And why, oh, why, did you inveigle me into coming downto this miserable pink-and-white house party with the hope of beingnear you and then utterly ignore me and spend your time flirting withBobby Taylor, while I sulk about like a lost sheep or run errands----"

  "For Miss Manners?" suggested the widow cuttingly.

  "Miss Manners!" exclaimed the bachelor scornfully.

  "You once thought her very beautiful, Mr. Travers."

  "That's just it!" retorted the bachelor. "Why didn't you let me go onthinking her beautiful----"

  "'As delicate as a sea shell,' wasn't it?"

  "Yes," snapped the bachelor, "and as--hollow!"

  The widow smiled enigmatically.

  "Tell me," she said sympathetically, "what she has done to you."

  "Well, for one thing," complained the bachelor, "she coaxed me out onthe piazza last night in the moonlight, and then, when she had talkedsentiment for half an hour and lured me to a dark spot and simply goadedme into taking her hand----"

  The widow sat up straight.

  "But you didn't do it, Billy Travers!"

  "Of course I did. It seemed almost an insult not to. And what did shedo? She jerked it away, flung herself from me, rose like an outragedqueen, turned on me with that 'I-thought-you-were-a-gentleman' air andsaid----"

  The widow lay back in her chair and laughed.

  "Oh, mercy!" she said, wiping the tears from her eyes when she wasable. "Excuse me but--but--how did she look when she did it?"

  "Well," confessed the bachelor, "she did look rather stunning."

  "That's why she did it," explained the widow between laughs. "A woman'sreason for doing most things is because she thinks she will look welldoing them."

  "Or because she thinks you will look surprised if she does them."

  "Or because she wants to attract your attention."

  "Or to make you feel uncomfortable."

  "Or to astonish you or amuse you or----"

  "Work on your sensibilities, or get on your nerves, or play on yoursympathies. But," he went on growing wroth at the recollection, "theidea of a little chit like that--and that isn't the worst. This morningshe dragged me out of bed at half-past five to go fishing. Fishing! Atthis season! I never saw a girl so crazy for fish in my life; and whenwe had walked four miles to find the right spot and she had been silentlong enough for me to feel a nibble at the bait and had helped me withall her might and main to haul in that blessed little fish, do you knowwhat she did?"

  The widow looked up questioningly.

  "She cried because I wanted to bring it home and made me throw it backinto the water. That's what she did!"

  The widow sat up straight, with horrified eyes.

  "Well, of course she did!" she exclaimed heatedly. "She only asked youto _catch_ the fish didn't she--not to _kill_ it?"

  The bachelor stared at her for a moment without speaking. Then he got upsilently and walked over to the window.

  "I suppose," he remarked after a long pause, apparently addressing thefront lawn or the blue heavens, "that it's that same sort of logic thatincites a woman to play for a man until she catches him--and then throwhim overboard. O Lord," he continued, glancing at the sky devoutly, "whycouldn't you have made them nice and sensible?"

  The widow took up her book with disdain.

  "'Nice and sensible'" she repeated witheringly. "Just think how itwould feel to be called 'nice and sensible!' I wish," she added, turningto her novel with an air of boredom, "that you would go and--talk toEthel Manners."

  The bachelor eyed her narrowly.

  "I guess I will," he said finally. "She seems more interesting--now thatyou've explained her."

  The widow stopped in the middle of a paragraph and looked up.

  "And by Jove!" went on the bachelor reminiscently, turning to the windowagain, "she did look dreamy in a sunbonnet and that little short skirtthis morning. She has adorable feet, you know."

  The widow closed her book with a sharp snap, keeping her fingers betweenthe pages.

  "_I_ know, Mr. Travers; but how did _you_ know?"

  "I looked at them," confessed the bachelor frankly, "and her ankles--"

  The widow's mouth closed in a straight line.

  "I'm afraid, Mr. Travers," she remarked frigidly, "that you are not afit companion for a young girl like Ethel."

  "I'm not equal to her," grinned the bachelor.

  "No, you're not. She's a nice, sensible girl and----"

  "Do you hate her very much?"

  "Hate her?" The widow's eyes opened with astonishment.

  "You called her 'nice and sensible.'"

  "Bobby Taylor's looking for you, Marion," called Miss Manners, glancingin at the door suddenly.

  "Well, goodby. I'm off," said the bachelor, following the swish of MissManners's skirts with his eyes, as she hurried away down the hall.

  "Sit down, Mr. Travers!" commanded the widow in an awful tone.
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  At that moment a buoyant young man poked his head in at the door.

  "Go way, Bobby," said the widow. "Mr. Travers and I arediscussing--er--psychology."

  "Ugh!" remarked Bobby, dutifully withdrawing, "why do you do it, if ithurts?"

  The bachelor looked up at the widow under the tail of his eyelid.

  "Does it hurt?" he asked.

  But the widow's underlip was curled into a distinct pout and her eyesmet his reproachfully. She dabbed them effectively with the end of herlace handkerchief.

  "Of c-course it does," she said with a little choke in her voice, "whenyou have been here three whole days and have never noticed me and havespent every minute of your time trailing around afterthat--that--little--"

  "But wasn't that what you invited me for?" exclaimed the bachelorhelplessly.

  "Of course it was," acknowledged the widow, "but--but I didn't thinkyou'd do it."

  The bachelor gazed at her a moment in blank amazement. Then a gleam ofenlightenment came into his eyes and he leaned over and caught herfingers.

  "Look here, Marion," he said gently, "you invited me down here to flingthat girl at my head. If you didn't want me to fall in love with her,what did you want?"

  "I wanted you to get enough of her!" explained the widow, smilingthrough her lace handkerchief.

  "Well--I have. I've got too much!" vowed the bachelor fervently.

  The widow laughed softly and complacently.

  "That's just what I knew would happen," she said, closing her novel andflinging it onto the couch.

  Then she added, looking up quizzically:

  "A woman always has a reason--if you can only find out what it is."