‘Stephen, Stephen!’ she cried hysterically.  ’Charlie has broken my vases, both of them.  It is too bad of him.  He’s really too clumsy!’

There was a terrific pother.  Stephen wakened violently, and in a moment all three were staring ineffectually at the thousand crystal fragments on the hearth.

‘But—­’ began Charlie Woodruff.

And that was all he did say.

He and Vera and Stephen had been friends since infancy, so she had the right not to conceal her feelings before him; Stephen had the same right.  They both exercised it.

‘But—­’ began Charlie again.

‘Oh, never mind,’ Stephen stopped him curtly.  ’Accidents can’t be helped.’

‘I shall get another pair,’ said Woodruff.

‘No, you won’t,’ replied Stephen.  ’You can’t.  There isn’t another pair in the world.  See?’

The two men simultaneously perceived that Vera was weeping.  She was very pretty in tears, but that did not prevent the masculine world from feeling awkward and self-conscious.  Charlie had notions about going out and burying himself.

‘Come, Vera, come,’ her husband enjoined, blowing his nose with unnecessary energy, bad as his cold was.

’I—­I liked those vases more than anything you’ve—­you’ve ever given me,’ Vera blubbered, charmingly, patting her eyes.

Stephen glanced at Woodruff, as who should say:  ’Well, my boy, you uncorked those tears, I’ll leave you to deal with ’em.  You see, I’m an invalid in a dressing-gown.  I leave you.’

And went.

‘No-but-look-here-I-say,’ Charlie Woodruff expostulated to Vera when he was alone with her—­he often started an expostulation with that singular phrase.  ’I’m awfully sorry.  I don’t know how it happened.  You must let me give you something else.’

Vera shook her head.

‘No,’ she said.  ’I wanted Stephen awfully to give me that music-stool that I told you about a fortnight ago.  But he gave me the vases instead, and I liked them ever so much better.’

’I shall give you the music-stool.  If you wanted it a fortnight ago, you want it now.  It won’t make up for the vases, of course, but—­’

‘No, no,’ said Vera, positively.

‘Why not?’

’I do not wish you to give me anything.  It wouldn’t be quite nice,’ Vera insisted.

‘But I give you something every Christmas.’

‘Do you?’ asked Vera, innocently.

‘Yes, and you and Stephen give me something.’

‘Besides, Stephen doesn’t quite like the music-stool.’

’What’s that got to do with it?  You like it.  I’m giving it to you, not to him.  I shall go over to Bostock’s tomorrow morning and get it.’

‘I forbid you to.’

‘I shall.’

Woodruff departed.

Within five minutes the Cheswardine coachman was driving off in the dogcart to Hanbridge, with the packing-case in the back of the cart, and a note.  He brought back the cigar-cabinet.  Stephen had not stirred from the dining-room, afraid to encounter a tearful wife.  Presently his wife came into the dining-room bearing the vast load of the cigar-cabinet in her delicate arms.