. In their quality of
well-bred hosts, they both endeavoured to keep Mr Bittenger at his ease
despite their desolating quarrel; and they entirely succeeded. As the
champagne disappeared (and it was not Stephen that drank it), Mr
Bittenger became more than at his ease. He was buyer for an important
firm of earthenware dealers in New York (Vera had suspected as
much--these hospitalities to American buyers are an essential part of
business in the Five Towns), and he related very drolly the series of
chances or mischances that had left him stranded in England at that
season so unseasonable for buying. Vera reflected upon the series of
chances or mischances, and upon her dream of the man from over the long
miles of water. Of course, dreams are nonsense.... But still--

The conversation passed to the topic of Stephen's health, as
conversations in Stephen's house had a habit of doing. Mr Bittenger
listened with grave interest.

'I know, I know!' said Mr Bittenger. 'I used to be exactly the same. I
guess I understand how you feel--SOME! Don't I?'

'And you are cured?' Stephen demanded, eagerly, as he nibbled at dry
toast.

'You bet I'm cured!' said Mr Bittenger.

'You must tell me about that,' said Stephen, and added, 'some time
tonight.' He did not care to discuss the bewildering internal economy
of the human frame at his dinner-table. There were details...and Mr
Bittenger was in a mood that it was no exaggeration to describe as gay.

Shortly afterwards, there arose a discussion as to their respective
ages. They coquetted for a few moments, as men invariably will, each
diffident about giving away the secret, each asserting that the other
was younger than himself.

'Well,' said Mr Bittenger to Vera, at length, 'what age should you give
me?'

'I--I should give you five years less than Stephen,' Vera replied.

'And may I ask just how old you are?' Mr Bittenger put the question at
close range to Stephen, and hit him full in the face with it.

'I'm forty,' said Stephen.

'So am I!' said Mr Bittenger.

'Well, you don't look it,' said Stephen.

'Sure!' Mr Bittenger admitted, pleased.

'My husband's hair is turning grey,' said Vera, 'while yours--'

'Turning grey!' exclaimed Mr Bittender. 'I wish mine was. I'd give five
thousand dollars today if mine was.'

'But why--?' Vera smiled.

'Look here, my dear lady,' said Mr Bittenger, in a peculiar voice,
putting down his glass.

And with a swift movement he lifted a