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--