ing would never be.

I guess I gasped a little at this. Anyhow, I know I tried to break
in and tell her that we _were_ going to separate, and that that was
exactly what I had come into the room in the first place to say.

But again she kept right on talking, and I was silenced before I had
even begun.

She said how she knew it could never be--on account of Eunice. That I
would never subject my little girl to the sort of wretchedly divided
life that I had had to live when I was a child.

(As she spoke I was suddenly back in the cobwebby attic with little
Mary Marie's diary, and I thought--what if it _were_ Eunice--writing
that!)

She said I was the most devoted mother she had ever known; that I was
_too_ devoted, she feared sometimes, for I made Eunice _all_ my world,
to the exclusion of Jerry and everything and everybody else. But that
she was very sure, because I _was_ so devoted, and loved Eunice so
dearly, that I would never deprive her of a father's love and care.

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