When Malcolm Rutherford entered the library, on the morning of a certain day before Christmas, he was surprised to find his wife in tears. This was all the more vexatious because he knew that she possessed everything to make a reasonable woman happy; but Mrs. Rutherford was not always a reasonable woman, being prone to causeless jealousy and impulsive to rashness. They lived about five miles from Winchester, Va., in which city Rutherford had a fine legal practice.
"What's the matter?" he asked. "Have any of our guests disappointed us?"
"No," she replied, drying her eyes. "They have all arrived and are in their rooms; and" – here she assumed an air of mystery – "in addition to the house-party, I have invited a couple of strangers to dine with us to-day."
"Indeed! Isn't it just a little extraordinary to invite strangers?" he interrupted.
"Strangers they are to me, but not to you. The woman claimed to be a friend of yours."
"Well, I have some friends whom you do not know."
"Miss Emily Tillinghurst, for example."
Rutherford started and turned red.
"Ah!" continued his wife, in a tone of triumph, "I think I have at last detected you. The woman who called upon me this morning – she has but just gone – was a Mrs. Honey. She had a letter of introduction from Lydia Wildfen; and what do you think her business was?"
"How should I know?"