I think it was at about this time that Jerry took up his painting again.  I guess I have forgotten to mention that all through the first two years of our marriage, before the baby came, he just tended to me.  He never painted a single picture.  But after Eunice came—­

But, after all, what is the use of going over these last miserable years like this?  Eunice is five now.  Her father is the most popular portrait painter in the country, I am almost tempted to say that he is the most popular man, as well.  All the old charm and magnetism are there.  Sometimes I watch him (for, of course, I do go out with him once in a while), and always I think of that first day I saw him at college.  Brilliant, polished, witty—­he still dominates every group of which he is a member.  Men and women alike bow to his charm. (I’m glad it’s not only the women.  Jerry isn’t a bit of a flirt.  I will say that much for him.  At any rate, if he does flirt, he flirts just as desperately with old Judge Randlett as he does with the newest and prettiest debutante:  with serene impartiality he bestows upon each the same glances, the same wit, the same adorable charm.) Praise, attention, applause, music, laughter, lights—­they are the breath of life to him.  Without them he would—­But, there, he never is without them, so I don’t know what he would be.

After all, I suspect that it’s just that Jerry still loves the ice-cream and the sunsets, and I don’t.  That’s all.  To me there’s something more to life than that—­something higher, deeper, more worth while.  We haven’t a taste in common, a thought in unison, an aspiration in harmony.  I suspect—­in fact I know—­that I get on his nerves just as raspingly as he does on mine.  For that reason I’m sure he’ll be glad—­when he gets my letter.

But, some way, I dread to tell Mother.

* * * * *

Well, it’s finished.  I’ve been about four days bringing this autobiography of Mary Marie’s to an end.  I’ve enjoyed doing it, in a way, though I’ll have to admit I can’t see as it’s made things any clearer.  But, then, it was clear before.  There isn’t any other way.  I’ve got to write that letter.  As I said before, I regret that it must be so sorry an ending.

I suppose to-morrow I’ll have to tell Mother.  I want to tell her, of course, before I write the letter to Jerry.

It’ll grieve Mother.  I know it will.  And I’m sorry.  Poor Mother!  Already she’s had so much unhappiness in her life.  But she’s happy now.  She and Father are wonderful together—­wonderful.  Father is still President of the college.  He got out a wonderful book on the “Eclipses of the Moon” two years ago, and he’s publishing another one about the “Eclipses of the Sun” this year.  Mother’s correcting proof for him.  Bless her heart.  She loves it.  She told me so.

Well, I shall have to tell her to-morrow, of course.