Why had they waited so long to get married? Because of the war. He was afraid he'd be killed and would leave her a widow. “He asked me to promise never to get married again if he did marry me and died. But,”—she leaned over my way—“that only meant if he died during the war, ain't that so? Lookit how long the war was over before he died.” He was awful good to her after they got married. He took her to a show every night—jes swell; and she had given him a swell funeral—you bet she did. The coffin had cost eighty-five dollars—white with real silver handles; and the floral piece she bought—“Gee! What's your name?... Connie, you oughtta seen that floral piece!” and Mame laid off work altogether to use her hands the better. It was shaped so, and in the middle was a clock made out of flowers, with the hands at the very minute and hour he'd died. (He passed away of a headache—very sudden.) Then below, in clay, were two clasped hands—his and hers. “Gee! Connie, you never seen nothin' so swell. Everybody seen it said so.” Once he bought her a white evening dress, low neck, fish-tail train, pearls all over the front—cost him one whole week's salary, eighty-five dollars! She had diamond earrings and jewels worth at least one thousand dollars. She had lovely clothes. Couldn't she just put a black band around the arms and go on wearing them? She took a look at my earrings. Gee! they were swell. She had some green ones herself. Next morning she appeared in her widow's weeds with bright-green earrings at least a quarter of an inch longer than mine. From the first Mame clung to me morning and night. Usually mornings she threw her arms around me in the dressing room. “Here's my Connie!” I saw myself forced to labor in the brassworks for life because of Mame's need of me. This need seemed more than spiritual. One day her pocketbook with twelve dollars had been stolen in the Subway. I lent her some cash. Another time she left her money at the factory. I lent her the wherewithal to get home with, etc. One day I was not at work. Somehow the other girls all were down on Mame. I have pondered much on that. When it came to the needed collection Mame found it hard pickings. She got a penny from this girl, another from that one, until she had made up a nickel to get home with. Irish Minnie gave her a sandwich and an apple. The girls all jumped on me: “The way you let that Frenchie work ya! Gee! you believe everything anybody tells ya.” “But,” says I, “she's been a widow only three weeks and I'm terrible sorry for her.” “How d'ya know she ever had a husband?” “How d'ya know he's dead?” “How'd ya....” The skepticism of factory workers appals me. They suspect everybody and everything from the boss down. I believed almost everything about Mame, especially since she paid back all she ever borrowed. No one else in that factory believed a word she said. They couldn't “stand her round.”