Mr. S. (enters, L.). What? Amanda—up yet. I expected to find you asleep. Don’t trouble yourself with mending that vest to-night. I have several others.
Mrs. S. (coldly). Where have you been to-night, John?
Mr. S. I was out on business.
Mrs. S. It must have been important business to keep you out till this hour.
Mr. S. To tell the truth it was so. But it isn’t a matter you would be likely to understand.
Mrs. S. I understand it only too well. (Passes letter to him.) Who wrote that letter? (Eyes him sharply.)
Mr. S. (bursting into a laugh). I understand it all now,—you’ve read that letter, and are jealous. Confess, now, that that’s the case. But I didn’t suppose you’d be so ridiculous.
Mrs. S. (bridling). Ridiculous indeed! When one’s husband receives such letters as that, it’s about time for his wife to inquire into the matter.
Mr. S. I received the letter this morning, but, satisfied that it was written to some other John Smith, I thrust it hastily into my pocket, not dreaming that it would stir up such a breeze as this.
Mrs. S. I wish, John, that you would have your name changed.