"It is not very good; it is very bad. I demand an immediate explanation of all the circumstances."
"I cannot give it," Rutherford replied, meditatively; "not, at least, until after Christmas."
"A pretty Christmas I shall pass with these dreadful suspicions of you gnawing at my very heart. You must—you shall explain it all to me."
"I neither can nor will," said Rutherford, angrily; and he abruptly terminated the conversation by turning on his heel and leaving her to suffer the tortures of what she believed to be well-founded jealousy.
Rutherford strode down the one street of the suburban village in such blind haste that he ran full tilt against old Mr. Robert Plowden, who was taking a stroll, and who, with his young wife, was a guest of the Rutherfords that Christmas.
"Dear me!" he exclaimed, "you almost knocked me over, Rutherford."
"Excuse me. I'm in an awful hurry to get to the telegraph office. It's fortunate I've met you here, as I've something to say to you which I would sooner not say indoors."
"You surprise me," said Plowden, falling into step with Rutherford. "Is it anything serious?"
"Extremely."
"And concerns me?"