estow upon women about to
give them food, she may easily imagine that he sees the other in her
place. Even the clasp of her hand or the touch of her lips may bring a
longing for that other, hidden in the far-off grave.

Broadly speaking, widowers make better husbands than widows do wives.
The presence of the dead wife may be a taunting memory, but seldom
more. It is not often that she is spoken of, unless it is to praise her
cooking. If she made incomparable biscuits and her coffee was fit to be
the nectar of the gods, there are apt to be frequent and tactless
comparisons, until painful experience teaches the sinner that this will
not do.

[Sidenote: "A Shining Mark"]

On the contrary, a widow's second husband is often the most sincere
mourner of her first. As time goes on, he realises keenly what a doleful
day it was for him when that other died. "Death loves a shining mark,"
and that first husband was always such a paragon of perfection that it
seems like an inadvertence because he was permitted to glorify this
sodden sphere at all. She keeps, in heart at least, and often by outward
observance, the anniversaries of her former engagement and marriage. The
love letters of the dead are put away with her jewels and bits of real
lace.

Small defections are commented upon and odious parallels drawn. Her home
is seen to be miserably inadequate beside the one she once had. Her
supply of pin money is painfully small, judged by the standard which has
hitherto been her guide. Callers are entertained with anecdotes of "my
first husband," and her dinner table is graced with the same stories
that famous raconteur was wont to tell.

If her present husband pays her a compliment, he is reminded that his
predecessor was accustomed to say the same thing. The relatives of the
first wife are gently made aware that their acquaintance is not desired.
His manner of life is carefully renovated and his old friendships put
away with moth balls and camphor, never to see the light again.

[Sidenote: The Best Advertisement]

Yet the best possible advertisement of matrimony is the rapidity with
which the bereaved seek new mates. There is no more delicate compliment
to a first marriage than a second alliance, even when divorce, rather
than death, has been the separating agency. A divorced man has more
power to charm than a widower, because there is always the supposition
that he was not understood and that his life's happiness is still to
c