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. 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 wig of glorious chestnut hair
from his head--just lifted it for an instant, and dropped it. The man
was utterly and completely bald.