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.'

She knew he would abide by that. He was a monster. She hated him. She
loathed him (so she said to herself).

That night, in the agony of her distress, she had dreamed a dream. She
dreamed that a stranger came to the house. The details were vague, but
the stranger had travelled many miles over water. She could not see him
distinctly, but she knew that he was quite bald. In spite of his
baldness he inspired her with sympathy. He understood her, praised her
costumes, and treated a woman as a woman ought to be treated. Then,
somehow or other, he was making love to her, the monster Stephen being
absent. She was shocked by his making love to her, and she moved a
little farther off him on the sofa (he had sat down by her on a vague
sort of sofa in a vague sort of room); but still she was thrilled, and
she could not feel as wicked as she felt she ought to feel. Then the
dream became hazy; it became hazy at the interesting point of her
answer to the love-making. A later stage was very clear. Something was
afoot between the monster Stephen and the stranger in the dining-room,
and she was locked out of the dining-room. It was Christmas night. She
knocked frantically at the door, and at last forced it open, and
Stephen was lying in the middle of the floor; the table had been pushed
into a corner. 'I killed him quite by accident,' said the stranger
affably. And then he seized her by