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Updated: June 16, 2025
'There! he said, proudly, and with a virtuous air. They were obviously costly antique vases, exquisite in form, exquisite in the graduated tints of their pale blue and rose. 'Seventeenth century! he said. 'They're very nice, Vera agreed, with a show of enthusiasm. 'What are they for? 'Your Christmas present, Cheswardine explained, and added 'my dear! 'Oh, Stephen! she murmured.
He lit a candle, escorted Robert upstairs, opened the door of the spare room, gave the candle to Robert, pushed him in, said 'Good night, and shut the door. What a night! A dramatic moment was about to arrive in the joint career of Stephen Cheswardine and Vera his wife. The motor-car stood by the side of the pavement of the Strand, Torquay, that resort of southern wealth and fashion.
At last about August, when he was obliged to give up wine he had suddenly decided that the grimy air of the Five Towns was bad for him, and that the household should be removed to Sneyd. And removed to Sneyd it accordingly was. The new house was larger and more splendid even than the Cheswardine abode at Bursley. But Vera did not like the change. Vera preferred the town.
Vera had been married ten years. But no one would have guessed it, to watch her girlish figure and her birdlike ways. You see, she was the only child in the house. She often bitterly regretted the absence of offspring to the name and honour of Cheswardine. She envied other wives their babies. She doted on babies.
He was a brown-haired man, personable despite his ungainliness, but he failed to perceive that to worship from afar off is not the best way to capture a young woman with large eyes and an emotional disposition. Cheswardine, who had a black beard, simply came along and married the little thing. She fluttered down on to his shoulders like a pigeon.
'It isn't absurd, Woodruff replied. 'It simply shows that what prevents wholesale murder is not the wickedness of it, but the fear of being found out, and the general mess, and seeing the corpse, and so on. Vera shuddered. 'And I'm not sure, Woodruff proceeded, 'that murder is so very much more wicked than lots of other things. 'Usury, for instance, Cheswardine put in.
People read, talked, and dreamt murder; for several weeks they took murder to all their meals. 'He doesn't want to defend Harrisford at all, said Cheswardine, with a superior masculine air, 'and of course anyone might commit a murder. I might. 'Stephen! How horrid you are! 'You might, even! said Woodruff, gazing at Vera. 'Charlie! Why, the blood alone
'What's that you're saying about murder? asked Mrs Cheswardine as she came into the large drawing-room, carrying the supper-tray. 'Put it down here, said her husband, referring to the supper-tray, and pointing to a little table which stood two legs off and two legs on the hearth-rug.
Mrs Cheswardine, with a whisk infinitely graceful, set the tray on the table, took a seat behind it on a chair that looked like a toddling grand-nephew of the arm-chairs, and nervously smoothed out the apron. As a matter of fact, the apron did suit her immensely.
It is astounding, delicious, adorable, the effect of a natty little domestic apron suddenly put on over an elaborate and costly frock, especially when you can hear the rustle of a silk petticoat beneath, and more especially when the apron is smoothed out by jewelled fingers. Every man knows this. Every woman knows it. Mrs Cheswardine knew it.
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