VI
SIGNS AND COUNTERSIGNS OF LOVE.
"IF there were only some way," began the bachelor, gazing thoughtfullyout of the window of the dining car, "in which a fellow could prove hislove----"
"There are millions of them!" declared the widow, sipping her consommedaintily.
"Those mediaeval fellows had such an advantage over us," complained thebachelor. "When a chap loved a girl, all he had to do to prove it was toget another chap to say he didn't, and then to break the other chap'shead. That was a sure sign."
"And it was so easy," remarked the widow.
"Yes," agreed the bachelor, enthusiastically. "Is there anybody whosehead you particularly want broken? I feel remarkably like fighting."
"Of course, you do," said the widow sympathetically. "The fightingspirit is born in every man. But duelling isn't a sign of love; it's asign of egotism, hurt pride, the spirit of competition, thedog-in-the-manger feeling. Besides, it's out of fashion."
"Well," sighed the bachelor, "then I suppose I shall have to save yourlife or--die for you."
"You might," said the widow, nodding encouragingly, "but it wouldn'tprove anything--except that you had a sense of the picturesque anddramatic. Suppose you did save my life; wouldn't you do as much for anyman, woman or child, or even any little stray dog who might happen tofall out of a boat or be caught in a fire, or get under the feet of arunaway?"
"I've got it!" cried the bachelor, "I'll write a book of poems anddedicate them to you."
The widow toyed with her spoon.
"You've done that to--several girls before," she remarked ungratefully.
"That's it!" cried the bachelor. "How is a man going to tell when he'sin love when he feels the same way--every time?"
"Have you forgotten your soup?" asked the widow, glancing at theuntouched plate in front of the bachelor.
The bachelor picked up his spoon languidly.
"No," he said, "but----"
"Because if you had," said the widow, "it would have been a proof."
"A--what?"
"A proof," repeated the widow. "Forgetting to eat your meals is thefirst sign of love. A man may write poetry and swear love by all theplanets separately; but if he sits down opposite you an hour afterwardand orders mutton chops and gravy and devours them to the last crumb,either he doesn't mean what he says or doesn't know what he is talkingabout. When he lets his breakfast grow cold and forgets to go out to hislunch and loses his interest in his dinner it's a sure sign of love."
"It might be a sign of dyspepsia," suggested the bachelor doubtfully.
"Oh, well," proceeded the widow, sipping her soup leisurely, "there areother signs besides a lost appetite."
The bachelor looked hopeful.
"Is one of them smelling violets all day, when there aren't any 'round;and feeling a funny jump in your throat every time you catch sight of aviolet hat; and suddenly discovering you have written, 'Send me eightquarts of violets and a widow,' instead of 'eight quarts of gasoline anda patent pump'?"
The widow leaned so far over her soup that her eyes were completelyshaded by the brim of her violet hat.
"Yes," she said gently, "loss of reason is one of them--and loss ofmemory."
"And loss of sleep?"
"And loss of common sense."
"And loss of self-respect?"
"And of your powers of conversation."
"Nonsense!" cried the bachelor, "a man in love can say more foolthings----"
The widow put down her spoon emphatically.
"A man in love," she contradicted, "can't talk at all? It's not thethings he says, but the things he isn't able to say; the things thatchoke right up in his throat----"
"I've had that!" interrupted the bachelor.
"Had--what?"
"The 'love-lump' in the throat."
"And did you ever go up stairs to light the gas and turn on the waterinstead; or walk three blocks in the wrong direction without knowing it;or hunt ten minutes for your shoes and then discover it was your collarbutton or your hat that you had lost?"
"Or add a column of figures and get a poem for the answer; or break yourneck running to the office and then have to sit down and think what youcame down early for; or begin a business letter 'Dearest Smith' and dropit in the box without a stamp, or read your paper upside down, or----"
"You've got it!" cried the widow.
"I know it," sighed the bachelor, "dreadfully!"
"The idea, I mean," said the widow, blushing. "Those are the real proofsof love."
"But," protested the bachelor, "they aren't impressive. How are yougoing to let the girl know----"
"A girl always knows," declared the widow.
"Are you going to say, 'Araminta, darling, I put on odd socks thismorning and salted my coffee and sugared my chop.' Accept this as aproof?"
"No, no, no," said the widow, laughing, "of course not! But when youarrive at her house half an hour before the time and appear at odd andembarrassing moments without a rational excuse and get mixed on yourdates and look at her as if she were the moon or a ghost, and mightdisappear at any moment, and sit for hours gazing into space andmoistening your lips in the hope that you will think of something tosay----"
"She knows that she's got you!" groaned the bachelor.
"Oh, she may not," declared the widow, cheerfully. "She may not knowanything. She may be in love herself."
"That's it!" protested the bachelor, "knowing you're in love is onlyhalf the trouble. How are you going to know when a girl has reached thelove stage? How are you going to know that she is not just dangling you,or marrying you for your money? They're so clever and wise andcoquettish and----"
"When a girl is in love," said the widow, "she ceases being clever andwise and coquettish. She becomes mooney and silent and begins to noticethings about you that you never knew yourself, such as that your nose islike Napoleon's or that you have a profile like E. H. Sothern andshoulders like Hackett's and hair like Kyrle Bellew's. She never keepsyou waiting, but is always dressed and sitting in the parlor an hourbefore you arrive and is never in a hurry to get home and will walk forblocks beside you in the rain with her best hat on without caring. Shebegins to 'mother' you----"
"To what?"
"To caution you about getting your feet wet and avoiding a draught andwearing your overcoat and to look at you every time you leave her as ifshe was afraid you would die before morning and--Mr. Travers, do youknow I believe this train has reached Jersey City?"
"Why--why--so it has! Waiter! Waiter! Where in thunder is thatblockhead? Why hasn't he brought us the rest of the dinner?"
"You forgot to order it!" said the widow, looking maliciously up underher hat.
"Jersey City! Last stop!" called the conductor from the door.
The bachelor put down his napkin and rose.
"Check, sir?" asked the waiter, with accusing eyes.
"Were you forgetting to pay?" inquired the widow, softly.
The bachelor thrust a bill into the waiter's hands and started down theaisle, followed by the widow.
"You forgot your change," remarked the widow, as they stepped into thedepot.
"Oh, never mind," said the bachelor. "Where are your wraps?"
The widow clutched his sleeve.
"I--I--left them in the dining car," she stammered.
The bachelor gazed down at the top of the violet hat with a triumphantsmile.
"Oh, do go back and try to get them!" moaned the widow glancing wildlyat the train, which by this time was being switched onto a side track.
"It will be at the risk of my life," declared the bachelor, "but if youwant--any more----"
"More--what?" asked the widow, distractedly.
"Proof," said the bachelor.
"It isn't necessary," said the widow, as she spied an excited porterrunning toward them, clutching a pongee coat, a silver hand bag and aviolet parasol.
"These," said the bachelor, taking them tenderly from the porter andtipping him, "are
the most substantial signs of----"
"A lost head," said the widow quickly.
"Or a lost heart," added the bachelor, as they crossed the station andstepped fatuously on to--the wrong ferryboat.