I met her one day in the post office and as we smilingly advanced toward each other I wildly grasped through my mental regions for her name. Just as our hands met, there broke what I took to be a happy gleam of light and I exclaimed, "Why, how do you do, Mrs. Taylor?" Did I imagine it, or was her handclasp indifferent and did I detect a subtle chill in her manner? I had been most attracted by her when we were introduced a week or so before, and she had apparently responded to my friendliness. But now-horrors! What had I called her? Her name is Mrs. Tucker, not Mrs. Taylor. How stupid of me! But then, of course, if she is the sort of person who becomes offended over little things, it is just as well I discovered it. By this time I had taken the letters from the box, and there on the very first one, for the thousandth time, some clumsy imbecile had addressed me as "Marie". Just as often it is "Maria". Now, both of those are perfectly good names, and I dare say I should bear either one or both proudly if they were mine- but that is just the point- they aren't mine, and I insist that I prefer to be called by my own name.