" The parents and aunt
were stowed away in a cottage somewhere. After that the letters became
infrequent. But in one I remember a postscript that had a little stab of
our old intimacy: "Poor old Miggles is dead."
Nearly eight years slipped by. I grew up. I grew in experience, in
capacity, until I was fully a man, but with many new interests, living
on a larger scale in a wider world than I could have dreamt of in my
Marion days. Her letters become rare and insignificant. At last came a
gap of silence that made me curious. For eighteen months or more I had
nothing from Marion save her quarterly receipts through the bank. Then I
damned at Smithie, and wrote a card to Marion.
"Dear Marion," I said, "how goes it?"
She astonished me tremendously by telling me she had married again--"a
Mr. Wachorn, a leading agent in the paper-pattern trade." But she still
wrote on the Ponderevo and Smith (Robes) notepaper, from the Ponderevo
and Smith address.
And that, except for a little difference of opinion about the
continuance of alimony which gave me some passages of anger, and the use
of my name by the firm, which also annoyed me, is the end of Marion's
history for me, and she vanishes out of this story.
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