"Certainly," says he. "It's just this: If I could find a woman who looked a good deal like my wife, I could try the hat on her, couldn't I? She'd do as well, eh?" "I don't know why not," says I. "Well," says he, "I know of just such a woman; saw her this morning in my hotel barber shop, where I dropped in for a haircut. She was one of these--What do you call 'em now?" "Manicure artists?" says I. "That's it," says he. "Asked me if I didn't want my fingers manicured; and, by jinks! I let her do it, just to see what it was like. Never felt so blamed foolish in my life! Look at them fingernails, will you? Been parin' 'em with a jackknife for fifty-seven years; and she soaks 'em out in a bowl of perfumery, jabs under 'em with a little stick wrapped in cotton, cuts off all the hang nails, files 'em round at the ends, and polishes 'em up so they shine as if they were varnished! He, he! Guess the boys would laugh if they could have seen me." "It's one experience you've got on me," says I. "And this manicure lady is a ringer for Mrs. Daggett, eh?" "Well, now," says he, scratchin' his chin, "maybe I ought to put it that she looks a good deal as Mrs. Daggett might have looked ten or fifteen years ago if she'd been got up that way,--same shade of red hair, only not such a thunderin' lot of it; same kind of blue eyes, only not so wide open and starry; and a nose and chin that I couldn't help remarking. Course, now, you understand this young woman was fixed up considerable smarter than Mrs. Daggett ever was in her life." "If she's a manicure artist in one of them Broadway hotels," says I, "I could guess that; specially if Mrs. Daggett's always stuck to Iowa." "Yes, that's right; she has," says Daggett. "But if she'd had the same chance to know what to wear and how to wear it----Well, I wish she'd had it, that's all. And she wanted it. My, my! how she did hanker for such things, Mr. McCabe!" "Well, better late than never," says I. "No, no!" says he, his voice kind of breakin' up. "That's what I want to forget, how--how late it is!" and hanged if he don't have to fish out a handkerchief and swab off his eyes. "You see," he goes on, "Marthy's gone." "Eh?" says I. "You mean she's----" He nods. "Four years ago this spring," says he. "Typhoid." "But," says I, "how about this hat?"