‘I’m most happy—­most happy,’ said Mr Bittenger, with a marked accent and a fine complimentary air.  And obviously he was most happy.  Vera had impressed him.  There was nothing surprising in that.  She was in the fullness of her powers in that direction.

It is at this point—­at the point of the first jumping of Vera’s heart—­that the tale begins to be uncanny and disturbing.  Thus runs the explanation.

During the year Stephen had gradually grown more and more preoccupied with the subject of his own health.  The earthenware business was very good, although, of course, manufacturers were complaining just as usual.  Trade, indeed, flourished to such an extent that Stephen had pronounced himself to be suffering from nervous strain and overwork.  The symptoms of his malady were chiefly connected with the assimilation of food; to be brief, it was dyspepsia.  And as Stephen had previously been one of those favoured people who can eat anything at any hour, and arise in the best of health the next day, Stephen was troubled.  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.  Nevertheless, she could not openly demur, since Stephen’s health was supposed to be at stake.

During the autumn she was tremendously bored at Sneyd.  She had practically no audience for her pretty dresses, and her friends would not flock over from Bursley because of the difficulty of getting home at night.  Then it was that Vera had the beautiful idea of spending Christmas in Switzerland.  Someone had told her about a certain hotel called The Bear, where, on Christmas Day, never less than a hundred well-dressed and wealthy English people sat down to an orthodox Christmas dinner.  The notion enchanted her.  She decided, definitely, that she and Stephen should do their Christmassing at The Bear, wherever the Bear was.  And as she was fully aware of the power of her capricious charm over Stephen, she regarded the excursion as arranged before she had broached it to him.

Stephen refused.  He remarked bitterly that the very thought of a mince-tart made him ill; and that he hated ‘abroad’.

Vera took her defeat badly.

She pouted.  She sulked.  She announced that, if she was not to be allowed to do her Christmassing at The Bear, she would not do it anywhere.  She indicated that she meant to perish miserably of ennui in the besotted dullness of Sneyd, and that no Christmas-party of any kind should occur in her house.  She ceased to show interest in Stephen’s health.  She would not speak.  In fact, she went too far.  One day, in reply to her rude silence, Stephen said:  ’Very well, child, if that’s your game, I’ll play it with you.  Except when other people are present, not a word do I speak to you until you have first spoken to me.’