There was just
the touch of early autumn chill in the air without, that made both the
fire and the table with its soft linen, gold and silver plate, and
twinkling glasses a warming, satisfying sight.
Mrs. Grey was a portly woman, inclined to think much of her dinner and
her clothes, both of which were always rich and costly. She was not
herself a notably intelligent woman; she greatly admired intelligence or
whatever looked to her like intelligence in others. Her money, too, was
to her an ever worrying mystery and surprise, which she found herself
always scheming to husband shrewdly and spend philanthropically--a
difficult combination.
As she awaited her guests she surveyed the table with both satisfaction
and disquietude, for her social functions were few, tonight there
were--she checked them off on her fingers--Sir James Creighton, the rich
English manufacturer, and Lady Creighton, Mr. and Mrs. Vanderpool, Mr.
Harry Cresswell and his sister, John Taylor and his sister, and Mr.
Charles Smith, whom the evening papers mentioned as likely to be United
States Senator from New Jersey--a selection of guests that had been
determined, unknown to the hostess, by the meeting of cotton interests
earlier in the day.
Mrs. Grey's chef was high-priced and efficient, and her butler was the
envy of many; consequently, she knew the dinner would be good.
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