the hand and ruthlessly dragged her
away, away, away; and they travelled in trains and ships and trains,
and they came to a very noisy, clanging sort of city--and Vera woke up.
It had been a highly realistic dream, and it made a deep impression on
Vera.

Can one wonder that Vera's heart, being a superstitious little heart,
like all our hearts, should leap when the very next day Stephen turned
up with a completely unexpected stranger from New York? Of course,
dreams are nonsense! Of course! Still--

She did not know whether to rejoice or mourn over the fact that Mr
Bittenger was not bald. He was decidedly unbald; he had a glorious
shock of chestnut hair. That hair of his naturally destroyed any
possible connection with the dream. None the less the coincidence was
bizarre.

II

That evening, before dinner, Vera, busy in her chamber beautifying her
charms for the ravishment of men from New York, waited with secret
anxiety for the arrival of Stephen in his dressing-room. And whereas
she usually closed the door between the bedroom and the dressing-room,
on this occasion she carefully left it wide open. Stephen came at last.
And she waited, listening to his movements in the dressing-room. Not a
word! She made brusque movements in the bedroom to attract his
attention; she even dropped a brush on the floor. Not a word! After a
few moments, she actually ventured into the dressing-room. Stephen was
wiping his face, and he glanced at her momentarily over the towel,
which hid his nose and mouth. Not a word! And how hard was the
monster's glance! She felt that Stephen was one of your absurd literal
persons. He had said that he would not speak to her until she had first
spoken to him--that was to say in private--public performances did not
count. And he would stick to his text, no matter how deliciously she
behaved.

She left the dressing-room in haste. Very well! Very well! If Stephen
wished for war, he should have it. Her grievance against him grew into
something immense. Before, it had been nothing but a kind of two-roomed
cottage. She now erected it into a town hall, with imposing portals,
and many windows and rich statuary, and suite after suite of enormous
rooms, and marble staircases, and lifts that went up and down. She
wished she had never married him. She wished that Mr Bittenger HAD been
bald.

At dinner everything went with admirable smoothness. Mr Bittenger sat
betwixt them. And utmost politeness reigned