If this was not love-making on a sofa, what could be?

Mr Bittenger had certainly missed the Liverpool express on purpose.  Of that Vera was convinced.  Or, if he had not missed it on purpose, he had missed it under the dictates of the mysterious power of the dream.  Those people who chose to believe that dreams are nonsense were at liberty to do so.

IV

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.  Mr Bittenger could not conceive an English Christmas without turkey, mince-pies, plum-pudding, and all the usual indigestiveness.  Vera, speaking in a voice which seemed somehow not to be hers, stated that these necessaries of Christmas life would be produced, and Stephen did not say that the very thought of a mince-tart made him ill.  Even the English weather, which, it is notorious, has of late shown a sad disposition to imitate, and even to surpass, in mildness the weather of the Riviera at Christmas, decided to oblige Mr Bittenger.  At nightfall on Christmas Eve it began to snow gently, but steadily—­fine, frozen snow.  And the waits, consisting of boys and girls from the Countess of Chell’s celebrated institute close by, came and sang in the garden in the falling snow, by the light of a lantern.  And Mr Bittenger’s heart was as full as it could hold of English Christmas.

As for Vera’s heart, it was full of she knew not what.  Mr Bittenger’s attitude towards her grew more and more chivalrous.  He contrived to indicate that he regarded all the years he had spent before making the acquaintance of Vera as so many years absolutely wasted.  And Stephen did not seem to care.

They retired to rest that evening up a staircase whose banisters the industrious hands of Mr Bittenger had entwined with holly and paper festoons, and bade each other a merry Christmas with immense fervour; but in the conjugal chamber Stephen maintained his policy of implacable silence.  And, naturally, Vera maintained hers.  Could it be expected of her that she should yield?  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.  Stephen alone observed her agitated condition.  Stephen said to himself:  ’The quarrel is getting on her nerves.  She’ll yield before she’s a day older.  It will do her good.  Then I’ll make it up to her handsomely.  But she must yield first.’