I shivered a little, and looked quickly into Mother’s face.  But she was not looking at me.  I was thinking of how Jerry had kissed and kissed Eunice a month ago, when we came away, as if he just couldn’t let her go.  Jerry is fond of Eunice, now that she’s old enough to know something, and Eunice adores her father.  I knew that part was going to be hard.  And now to have Mother put it like that—­

I began to talk then of Jerry.  I just felt that I’d got to say something.  That Mother must listen.  That she didn’t understand.  I told her how Jerry loved lights and music and dancing, and crowds bowing down and worshiping him all the time.  And she said yes, she remembered; that he’d been that way when I married him.

She spoke so sort of queerly that again I glanced at her; but she still was looking down at the hem she was turning.

I went on then to explain that I didn’t like such things; that I believed that there were deeper and higher things, and things more worth while.  And she said yes, she was glad, and that that was going to be my saving grace; for, of course, I realized that there couldn’t be anything deeper or higher or more worth while than keeping the home together, and putting up with annoyances, for the ultimate good of all, especially of Eunice.

She went right on then quickly, before I could say anything.  She said that, of course, I understood that I was still Mary and Marie, even if Jerry did call me Mollie; and that if Marie had married a man that wasn’t always congenial with Mary, she was very sure Mary had enough stamina and good sense to make the best of it; and she was very sure, also, that if Mary would only make a little effort to be once in a while the Marie he had married, things might be a lot easier—­for Mary.

Of course, I laughed at that.  I had to.  And Mother laughed, too.  But we understood.  We both understood.  I had never thought of it before, but I had been Marie when I married Jerry. I loved lights and music and dancing and gay crowds just exactly as well as he did.  And it wasn’t his fault that I suddenly turned into Mary when the baby came, and wanted him to stay at home before the fire every evening with his dressing-gown and slippers.  No wonder he was surprised.  He hadn’t married Mary—­he never knew Mary at all.  But, do you know?  I’d never thought of that before—­until Mother said what she did.  Why, probably Jerry was just as much disappointed to find his Marie turned into a Mary as I—­

But Mother was talking again.