The widow studied her Sévres cup thoughtfully. "Well," she admitted, "sometimes the material is so bad or so skimpy—" "So—what?" The widow smiled patiently. "Skimpy," she repeated. "There is so little to some men that the cleverest woman couldn't patch them up[120] into a full-sized specimen. They are like the odds and ends left on the remnant counter. You have to do the best you can with them and then use Christian Science to make yourself believe they are all there and that the patches don't show. Haven't you ever seen magnificent women trailing little annexes after them like echoes or—or——" [120] "Captives in the wake of a conquering queen?" broke in the bachelor. The widow studied her Sévres cup as the purple plume on her hat danced. "Those," she exclaimed, "are the bargain-counter husbands, picked up at the last moment and made over to fit the situation—which they never do." The bachelor set down his teacup[121] with the light of revelation in his eyes. [121] "And I always thought," he exclaimed solemnly, "that they were picked out on purpose to act as shadows or—or satellites." "Picked out!" echoed the widow mockingly. "As if all women wouldn't be married to Greek gods or Napoleon Bonapartes or Wellingtons or Byrons if they could 'pick out' a husband. Husbands are like Christmas gifts. You can't choose them. You've just got to sit down and wait until they arrive; and sometimes they don't arrive at all. A woman doesn't 'pick out' a husband; she 'picks over' what's offered and takes the best of the lot." "And sometimes you're so long picking them over," added the bachelor,[122] "that the best ones are snapped up by somebody else and you have to take the left-overs." [122] The widow poised her spoon above her cup tentatively. "Well," she sighed, "it's all a lottery anyhow. The girl who snaps up her first offer of marriage is as likely to get something good as the one who snaps her finger at it and waits for a Prince
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