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Updated: June 23, 2025
'Stephen, she said, in her most persuasive voice, 'will you do something to please me? 'What is it? 'Will you? A pause. 'Yes, certainly. 'Don't box tonight. 'Oh well! What will Bittenger think? Another pause. 'Never mind! You don't want me to box, really? 'I don't want you to box not tonight. 'Agreed, my chuck! And he kissed her again. He could well afford to be magnanimous.
So that in spite of Vera's definite proclamation that there should be no Christmassing in her house that year, Christmassing there emphatically was. Impossible to deny anything to Mr Bittenger! Mr Bittenger wanted holly, the gardener supplied it. Mr Bittenger wanted mistletoe, a bunch of it was brought home by Stephen in the dogcart.
The fault was all Stephen's. He ought to have taken her to The Bear, Switzerland. Then there would have been no dream, no Mr Bittenger, and no danger. But as things were, within twenty-four hours he would be a dead man. And throughout Christmas Day Vera, beneath the gaiety with which she met the vivacious sallies of Mr Bittenger, waited in horrible suspense for the dream to fulfil itself.
He was coatless, as Louisa had said, and the extremities of his long arms were bulged out with cream-coloured boxing-gloves. She sprang at him and kissed him. 'Steve, she said, 'are we friends? 'I should think we were! he replied, returning her kiss heartily. He had won. 'What are you doing? she asked him. 'Bittenger and I are just going to have a real round with the gloves.
A chance blow by Mr Bittenger in some vital part, and Stephen would be lying stretched in eternal stillness in the middle of the dining-room floor where the table ought to be! The life of the monster was at stake! The life of the brute was in her hands! The dream was fulfilling itself to the point of tragedy! She jumped up and rushed to the dining-room door. It would not open. Again, the dream!
The conversation passed to the topic of Stephen's health, as conversations in Stephen's house had a habit of doing. Mr Bittenger listened with grave interest. 'I know, I know! said Mr Bittenger. 'I used to be exactly the same. I guess I understand how you feel SOME! Don't I? 'And you are cured? Stephen demanded, eagerly, as he nibbled at dry toast. 'You bet I'm cured! said Mr Bittenger.
She allowed it to be understood that she was indisposed. Mr Bittenger was full of sorrow and sympathy. But did Stephen show the slightest concern? Stephen did not. She went upstairs, and she meditated, stretched on the sofa at the foot of the bed, a rug over her knees and the fire glinting on her face.
And Vera suddenly noticed that they were on a sofa the sofa of her dream and she fancied she recognized the room. 'You know, my dear lady, said Mr Bittenger, looking her straight in the eyes, 'I'm just GLAD I missed my steamer. It gives me a chance to spend a Christmas in England, and in your delightful society your delightful society He gazed at her, without adding to the sentence.
'And may I ask just how old you are? Mr Bittenger put the question at close range to Stephen, and hit him full in the face with it. 'I'm forty, said Stephen. 'So am I! said Mr Bittenger. 'Well, you don't look it, said Stephen. 'Sure! Mr Bittenger admitted, pleased. 'My husband's hair is turning grey, said Vera, 'while yours 'Turning grey! exclaimed Mr Bittender. 'I wish mine was.
She entered the drawing-room first, and Mr Bittenger followed her, with Stephen behind; but just as Stephen was crossing the mat the gardener, holding a parcel in his hands and looking rather strange there in the hall, spoke to him. And Stephen stopped and called to Mr Bittenger. And the drawing-room door was closed upon Vera.
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