They were smashed to atoms.
Vera screamed. She screamed twice, and ran out of the room.
'Stephen, Stephen!' she cried hysterically. 'Charlie has broken my
vases, both of them. It IS too bad of him. He's really too clumsy!'
There was a terrific pother. Stephen wakened violently, and in a moment
all three were staring ineffectually at the thousand crystal fragments
on the hearth.
'But--' began Charlie Woodruff.
And that was all he did say.
He and Vera and Stephen had been friends since infancy, so she had the
right not to conceal her feelings before him; Stephen had the same
right. They both exercised it.
'But--' began Charlie again.
'Oh, never mind,' Stephen stopped him curtly. 'Accidents can't be
helped.'
'I shall get another pair,' said Woodruff.
'No, you won't,' replied Stephen. 'You can't. There isn't another pair
in the world. See?'
The two men simultaneously perceived that Vera was weeping. She was
very pretty in tears, but that did not prevent the masculine world from
feeling awkward and self-conscious. Charlie had notions about going out
and burying himself.
'Come, Vera, come,' her husband enjoined, blowing his nose with
unnecessary energy, bad as his cold was.
'I--I liked those vases more than anything you've--you've ever given
me,' Vera blubbered, charmingly, patting her eyes.
Stephen glanced at Woodruff, as who should say: 'Well, my boy, you
uncorked those tears, I'll leave you to deal with 'em. You see, I'm an
invalid in a dressing-gown. I leave you.'
And went.
'No-but-look-here-I-say,' Charlie Woodruff expostulated to Vera when he
was alone with her--he often started an expostulation with that
singular phrase. 'I'm awfully sorry. I don't know how it happened. You
must let me give you something else.'
Vera shook her head.
'No,' she said. 'I wanted Stephen awfully to give me that music-stool
that I told you about a fortnight ago. But he gave me the vases
instead, and I liked them ever so much better.'
'I shall give you the music-stool. If you wanted it a fortnight ago,
you want it now. It won't make up for the vases, of course, but--'
'No, no,' said Vera, positively.
'Why not?'
'I do not wish you to give me anything. It wouldn't be quite nice,'
Vera insisted.
'But I give you something every Christmas.'
'Do you?' asked Vera, innocently.
'Yes, and you and Stephen give me something.'
'Besides, Stephen doesn't quite like the music-stool.'
'What's that got to do with it? You like it. I'm giving it to you, not
to him. I shall go over to Bostock's tomorrow morning and get it.'
'I forbid you to.'
'I shall.'
Woodruff departed.
Within five minutes the Cheswardine coachman was driving off in the
dogcart to Hanbridge, with the packing-case in the back of the cart,
and a note. He brought back the cigar-cabinet. Stephen had not stirred
from the dining-room, afraid to encounter a tearful wife. Presently his
wife came into the dining-room bearing the vast load of the
cigar-cabinet in her delicate arms.
'I thought it might amuse you to fill it with your cigars--just to pass
the time,' she said.
Stephen's thought was: 'Well, women take the cake.' It was a thought
that occurs frequently to the husbands of Veras.
There was ripe Gorgonzola at dinner. Stephen met it as one meets a
person whom one fancies one has met somewhere but cannot remember where.
The next afternoon the music-stool came, for the second time, into the
house. Charlie brought it in HIS dogcart. It was unpacked
ostentatiously by the radiant Vera. What could Stephen say in
depreciation of this gift from their oldest and best friend? As a fact
he could and did say a great deal. But he said it when he happened to
be all alone in the drawing-room, and had observed the appalling way in
which the music-stool did not 'go' with the Chippendale.
'Look at the d--thing!' he exclaimed to himself. 'Look at it!'
However, the Christmas dinner-party was a brilliant success, and after
it Vera sat on the art nouveau music-stool and twittered songs, and
what with her being so attractive and birdlike, and what with the
Christmas feeling in the air... well, Stephen resigned himself to the
music-stool.