Una, hurrying off to the office every morning, agonized with the effort to be on time, always had to stop and prepare a written list of the things her mother was to do. Otherwise, bespelled by the magazine stories which she kept forgetting and innocently rereading, Mrs. Golden would forget the marketing, forget to put the potatoes on to boil, forget to scrub the bathroom.... And she often contrived to lose the written list, and searched for it, with trembling lips but no vast persistence. Una, bringing home the palsying weariness of the day's drudgery, would find a cheery welcome--and the work not done; no vegetables for dinner, no fresh boric-acid solution prepared for washing her stinging eyes. Nor could Una herself get the work immediately out of the way, because her mother was sure to be lonely, to need comforting before Una could devote herself to anything else or even wash away the sticky office grime.... Mrs. Golden would have been shocked into a stroke could she have known that while Una was greeting her, she was muttering within herself, "I do wish I could brush my teeth first!" If Una was distraught, desirous of disappearing in order to get hold of herself, Mrs. Golden would sigh, "Dear, have I done something to make you angry?" In any case, whether Una was silent or vexed with her, the mother would manage to be hurt but brave; sweetly distressed, but never quite tearful. And Una would have to kiss her, pat her hair, before she could escape and begin to get dinner (with her mother helping, always ready to do anything that Una's doggedly tired mind might suggest, but never suggesting novelties herself). After dinner, Mrs. Golden was always ready to do whatever Una wished--to play cribbage, or read aloud, or go for a walk--not a _long_ walk; she was so delicate, you know, but a nice _little_ walk with her dear, dear daughter.... For such amusements she was ready to give up all her own favorite evening diversions--namely, playing solitaire, and reading and taking nice little walks.... But she did not like to have Una go out and leave her, nor have naughty, naughty men like Walter take Una to the theater, as though they wanted to steal the dear daughter away. And she wore Una's few good frocks, and forgot to freshen them in time for Una to wear them. Otherwise, Mrs. Golden had the unselfishness of a saint on a marble pillar. Una, it is true, sometimes voiced her irritation over her mother's forgetfulness and her subsequent pathos, but for that bitterness she always blamed herself, with horror remembered each cutting word she had said to the Little Mother Saint (as, in still hours when they sat clasped like lovers, she tremblingly called her). § 3 Mrs. Golden's demand of Una for herself had never been obvious till it clashed with Walter's demand.