coming to Atlanta. Years of discontent. Years of unhappiness. He was better off, materially, of course. He had made money, it’s true, but he wondered if he would have even held his job had it not been backed by Mary’s father with his money and his influence. Good Lord, he had been slowly achieving the respectable status of solid citizenry under the combined urging and guidance of Mary and Mr. Robertson. And what was it all worth? Was any of this petty striving and scrambling worth half the things it took out of you?
And Mimi—she had grown away from him, too. There was between them of course the old affection—he never doubted that for a minute. But the little ways that revealed the bond beneath, they were becoming fewer each passing year. Oh, well, she is young, he thought, while I’m old and away behind the new generation. He was proud of her, nevertheless. As she marched from the chapel and passed successively the long, narrow windows, the sun streaming in had made her beautiful hair burst into a wild, exotic, flaming red beauty. It stood out against the blacks and browns of the heads of the other girls like a radiant setting sun in a sky of rain clouds. He was happy she was so pretty—he hoped she’d be married before he joined Margot. He had watched the little ways, the growth of tiny revealments of the warm blood which coursed beneath Mimi’s laughing exterior. He was afraid, terribly afraid, of leaving her alone. Alone? Yes, he concluded, that’s exactly what would be the case if anything happened to me. Mary and Mimi would never agree were he not there. …
“Come on, Jean,” Mary roused him. “It’s all over. … Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Lewis? Yes, it’s sad, in a way, to see our little Mimi become a young woman right before your very eyes. Yes, she did look nice … and she’s a dear— Mr. Daquin and I adore her.—Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Thompson.—Where’s Mrs. Thompson?—There she is! My dear, that was a beautiful gift you sent. I was just thanking your husband for it but I want to thank you both. …”