"Agnes Darrell."
"I don't think she has a pretty name, at all events."
"Oh, that was only her stage name. I really don't remember what her real
name was."
This was a judicious falsehood.
"Well, I'm sorry that you ever made love to actresses. I'm afraid I can't
think as much of you after knowing--"
"After knowing that the first sight of you drove the memory of all
actresses and other women in the world out of my head," cried Craddock,
with a merry fervour that made his speech irresistible.
So they persisted in being extremely happy together for three years, to the
grinding chagrin of Craddock's mother-in-law in Boston.
One July Friday, Craddock's wife was at the seashore, while Craddock, who
ran down each Saturday to remain with her until Monday, was battling with
his work and the heat and the summer insects, in his office in the city.
Mrs. Craddock received her mail, two letters addressed to her at the
seaside, two forwarded from the city whither they had first come.
Of the latter one was a milliner's announcement of removal. The other was
in a large envelope, and the address was in a chirography unknown to her.
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