He married one of the sweetest and best of women. The match was an ideal one—exceptionally so. His wife's mother objected to it and moved away on account of it. “That's a detail,” said Craddock.
There are details and details. The importance of any one of them depends on circumstances.
Craddock had all the qualities and attributes requisite to make him a son-in-law to the liking of his mother-in-law—lack of money.
So she went to live in Boston, maintained a chilly correspondence with her daughter, and bided her time.
Craddock had had his old loves, a fact that he did not attempt to conceal from his wife. She insisted upon his telling her about them, although the narration put her into manifest vexation of mind. Such is the way of young wives.
There was one love about which Craddock said less than about any of the others, because it had encroached more upon his life than any of them. It had nearly approached being a serious affair. He had a delicacy concerning the mention of it, too, for he flattered himself that the flame, although entirely extinguished upon his own side, yet smouldered deep in the heart of the woman. Therefore, he spoke of that episode in vague and general terms.
Strange as it seemed to Craddock, clear as it is to any student of men and women, it was this amour that excited the most curiosity in the mind of his wife.
“What was her name?” asked the latter.
“Agnes Darrell.”
“I don't think she has a pretty name, at all events.”