“Bob is very wrong to talk so,” she said at last, picking up her fork, “when you’re his friend, too.” 

 He poked his clams—he hated clams. 

 “I suppose men think it’s amusing to do such things,” she continued, “but I think it’s as ill-bred as practical joking.” 

 “But you are married,” he said, trying fiercely to pepper some taste into the tasteless things before him. 

 “Yes, I’m married,” she admitted tranquilly, “but, then, my husband went to Africa so soon afterwards that he hardly seemed to count at all. And then he was killed there; so, after that, he seemed to count less than ever.” 

 The air danced exclamation points and the man on the other side spoke to her then so that her turning to answer him gave Jack time to rally his wits. 

 (A widow!) 

 Then she turned back and said: 

 “I think Bob mystified you unnecessarily. Of course I don’t flatter myself that you’ve suffered.” 

 “Oh, but I have,” he hastened to assure her. 

 (A widow! A widow!) 

 “But it always makes a difference whether a woman is married or not.” 

 “I should say it did,” he interrupted again. “It makes all the difference in the world.” 

 At that she laughed outright, and someone suddenly abstracted the distasteful clams and substituted for them a golden and glorious soup, and music sounded forth from some invisible quartet, and—and— 

 (A widow! A widow! A widow!) 

 

Chapter Five The Day After Falling in Love

 The next day was a very memorable day for Jack. The day after a falling in love is always a red-letter day; but the day after the falling in love—ah! 

 One looks back—far back—to the day before, and those hours of the day before, when her sun had not yet dawned, and struggles to recollect what ends life could have represented then. And one looks forward to the next day, the next week, the next year—but, particularly to the next 

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