The Waterbury Democrat., 1938-06-13
This Nan Joe Murray BY WILLIAM CORCORAN Copyright NEA

because 1t was such grand thing
 to do. If go back to work for a while it'll be just that and every body'll know. Will you let me go back to work?"
 He understood. Certainly. As
 long as you want. And you quit any time 1t suits you"
 She grinned at him. Not too seen. I'm very greedy. want
 lots of money. want lots of babies and they cost money. And I want a house out in Gardensdale for them, just a little house, and you can have a little car and go to work in it and ."
 For an instant he was not listen- ing; his mind automatically span ned time of months, and there was a picture, of another house sudden ly vivid in minds eye. Then he said, "A house, baby? We'll have one soon as the bank book buys one" He held her very tightly, very close, while she told him all about her house.
 Terry knew what she wanted, clearly. Had she known a happy home, there would be less novelty in it, less fascination less high, high adventure with this man who was her husband.
 It was soon evident that house would be no problem to her. She'd had rigid training as a housekeeper, thorough if not benign training. The routine of cooking and cleaning, with Joe s help, was dispatched with efficient speed in so small a place.
 It was bare sort of place, so scantily furnished, but that was not matter that either of them could mind. Such as it was, it was theirs. Terry had a few small pictures, bit of brocade, pair of silver candlesticks, a Wedgwood serving platter, dozen or so books Joe looked curiously in the books: Palgrave's Golden Treasury, When Knighthood Was in Flower, To Have and to Hold, The Care and Feeding of Children Gan edition twenty years old, A Compendium of Social Usage, The White House Cook Book, A Travel Diary in Provence a strange miscellany.
 Where did you get these?" he asked.
 They belonged to my mother '' she told him. "All those things belonged to her. They were put away. I guess she had lots of lovely things, but these are all they left. I've always kept track of them, and I'd never leave with out them. She got a faded photo- graph from her handbag, photo graph in a silver frame of blandly gay and demurely pretty young wo- man in a high-neck waist and a halo of soft dark hair It was an in- telligent, sensitive face. That was mother before she got married. She died when I was ten."
 "Hm," said Joe. He looked at Terry. She's nice. I'd like to have met her."
 Terry kissed him gratefully and put the picture away without say ing any more about her mother.
 They slid gently and placidly into a way of living that was- full of peace and quiet pleasure. They had found the world hard, each in a different way, and they with drew from the world because of the peace there was. They helped one another and enjoyed one an- other, and they did not miss the world. They quickly found the simple diversions of young mar ried people the world over: the easy escape of moving picture, the long slow interest in trolley ride on warm night, the desul- tory absorption of double solitaire, the satisfaction in long, detailed discussions about anything at all in the late darkness, side by side. There was no tension, no cross