what she says but how she
says it that counts. There are some women who could read your death
warrant or repeat the multiplication table in such a confiding voice and
with such a tender glance that you would want to take them in your arms
and thank them for it. It isn't what a woman wears but how she wears it;
it's not her beauty nor her talents nor her frocks that make her
fascinating, but her ways, the little earmarks of femininity that God
put on every creature born to wear petticoats; and if she's got those
she may be a Lucretia Borgia or a Bloody Mary at heart; she may be
brown or yellow or pale green; she may be old or young, big or little,
stupid or clever, and still wear a beautiful halo. The trouble," he
added, flicking the end of his cigar thoughtfully, "is not with man's
ideal but with woman's deal. She holds all the cards, but she plays them
badly. When a two-spot of flattery would win her point, she deals a chap
the queen of arguments; when the five of smiles would take the trick for
her, she plays the deuce of a pout. When the ace of sympathy or the ten
of tact would put the whole game of love into her hands, she thinks it
is time to be funny and flings a man the joker."

The widow laid her work on the table beside her, folded her hands in
her lap and smiled at the bachelor sweetly.

"That's just what I said," she remarked, gently.

"What you said!"

The widow nodded and rubbed her nose reminiscently with the end of her
handkerchief.

"Yes," she replied, "it isn't putting powder on your nose or rouge on
your cheeks or perfume on your petticoats or a broad 'A' on your accent
that shocks a man, but putting them on inartistically. It isn't the
things you do but the things you overdo that offend masculine taste.
It's the 'over-done' woman that a man hates--the woman who is
over-dressed or overly made-up, or overly cordial or overly flattering,
or overly clever, or overly good, or overly anything. He doesn't want
to see how the wheels go around at the toilet table or in a woman's head
or her heart; and it's the subtle, illusive little thing that he doesn't
notice until he steps on her and finds her looking up adoringly at him
under his nose that he idealizes."

"And marries," added the bachelor conclusively.

"And then forgets," sighed the widow, "while he goes off to amuse
himself with the obvious person with peroxide hair and a straight-front
figure. I don't know," she added tentatively, "that it's mu