“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. The large envelope contained a smaller one.
This second envelope was addressed to Miss Agnes Darrell, —— Hotel, Chicago, in the handwriting of Craddock.
The feelings of Craddock's wife are imaginable. She took from this already opened second envelope the letter that it contained. It also was in Craddock's penmanship. She succeeded in a semistupefied condition in reading it to the end.
“May 13.