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