"Father is welcome to go on calling me Marit."
Mrs. Dawes looked at her sorrowfully, but said no more. Marit had finished putting on her gloves.
"In America I am called Mary. I know that. Here is a specimen card. It looks nice; doesn't it?"
She drew a very small card from her card-case. Mrs. Dawes looked at it, then handed it to Anders. Upon it was inscribed in minute Italian characters:
Mary Krog.
Anders looked at it, looked long; then laid it on the table, took up his newspaper, and sat as if he were reading.
"I am sorry, Father, that you take it in this way."
Anders Krog said once more, gently, without looking up from his newspaper: "Marit is your mother's name."
"I, too, am fond of Mother's name. But it does not suit me."
She quietly left the room. Mrs. Dawes, who was sitting at the window, watched her going along the street. Anders Krog laid down the newspaper; he could not read. Mrs. Dawes made an attempt to comfort him. "There is something in what she says; Marit no longer suits her."