"'Now what I want to know is why this chap can't behave himself and regard his fair friend as he would an exquisite rose in a garden--somebody else's garden. Why can't he say to himself: "This woman is one of God's loveliest creatures, but she does not belong to me. I can look at her, I can rejoice in her beauty, but I mustn't touch her or try to harm her." Why can't he say that to himself? Isn't it a wicked thing for a man to crush and bruise and destroy a lovely flower, to scatter its color and perfume just for a wayward impulse?' "I shall never forget the earnestness, the tenderness in the eyes and voice of this harum scarum poet whose record in women conquests makes a rich chapter in the annals of Greenwich Village. At this moment he was quite sincere, or thought he was. There were tears in his eyes. "And what did I do? I rose from my pillows and said, with a little laugh and toss of my head: 'Very pretty, Kendall, you ought to make a poem of it.' Then I went over to the victrola and set it going in a fox-trot, one of my favorites. I was restless and began to move about slowly to the music while Kendall watched me with a different light growing in his eyes. I wore a clinging white house garment--I suppose I was at my best. "'Let's dance it, Pen, just gently so as not to disturb the folks downstairs,' he said. So we danced the fox-trot and my hair brushed against his cheek--he really dances very well for a poet. "After he had gone I sat thinking of this for a long time, puzzled about myself and about Kendall. This afternoon I saw him again as I was passing through the Brevoort Cafe. He came up to me, smiling, and drew me aside. "'Don't you see what a little faker you are, Pen?' he laughed. 'It's just as I said, you are none of you on the level, you pretty women. Why did you set that victrola going last night and tempt me to--to--yes you did, you know darn well you did. Why did you let your cheek brush against mine? Come, be honest, if you can. You're laughing, you adorable little devil--you expected me to kiss you.' "'Impertinent!' I said. 'You do yourself too much honor, sir.' "'I say you expected me to kiss you.' "'No.' "'Liar!' He wrinkled up his nose amusingly. "I suppose I was a liar. I did expect Kendall Brown to--well--not to kiss me necessarily, but to make it perfectly clear that he wanted to. It was a ridiculous and unnecessary bit of posing on his part to act as if he did not want to. The French have a saying that a pretty woman always expects a suitor to know just _when_ to be lacking in respect." HOW SHALL A WOMAN SATISFY HER HEART'S LONELINESS? I quote from my diary without comment another significant conversation that took place during the early months of my widowhood. How I resented, at this time, any suggestion that I was inclined to venture too near the sentimental danger line! And yet....