The new generation was to see little of these sublime modesties. The majority of widows lived in the world; but what liberty they enjoyed they bought very dear, and on the whole they had less liberty than wives. They were gay and did not darken too often the vestry-door; they did not flaunt the time-honoured widow’s cap, still dear to Englishwomen—headgear that would disgust anybody with widowhood. Was that a crime? By no means; and yet the slightest slip or suspicion of a slip was in them unpardonable. Men saw in every widow either a naughty woman or a hypocrite, and they did not shrink from saying so. A physician was once bargaining for a mule in the presence of a fair widow, and said he: “I want one that’s a widow”: and as the dealer did not understand him, he added: “Yes, a widow, that is, plump, and light on her heels, and a good feeder.” The saying ran: “If a man thinks his wife a little too thin, he had better make her a widow.” A widow was regarded only as so much raw material; and from the moment when “Goodman Danger” was no longer at hand, sin itself seemed to lose its sweetness. Widows were recommended to frequent none but deserted chapels, to contemplate the crucifix during the night. This condescending pity sprang sometimes from good-heartedness; but it was often odious to them, and all the more so because everyone, even the most confidential servants, fancied they had a right to throw in their sympathetic suggestions. Anne of France was indignant at this universal treason, which shocked her sense of right.[120]