She uprose, the blood having rushed to her head, and retreated she knew
not whither, blindly, without a purpose. And found herself in a little
morning-room which was scarcely ever used, at the end of the hall. She
had not shut the door. And Mr Bittenger, having been admitted by a
servant, caught sight of her, and breezily entered her retreat, clad in
his magnificent furs.
And as he doffed the furs, he gaily told her what had happened. Owing
to difficulties with the Cheswardine mare on the frosty, undulating
road between Sneyd and Bursley, and owing to delays with his baggage at
the Five Towns Hotel, he had just missed the Liverpool express, and,
therefore, the steamer also. He had returned to Stephen's manufactory.
Stephen had insisted that he should spend his Christmas with them. And,
in brief, there he was. He had walked from Bursley. Stephen, kept by
business, was coming later, and so was some of the baggage.
Mr Bittenger's face radiated joy. The loss of his twenty-guinea passage
on the Saxonia did not appear to cause him the least regret.
And he sat down by the side of Vera.
And Vera suddenly noticed that they were on a sofa--the sofa of her
dream--and she fancied she recognized the room.
'You know, my dear lady,' said Mr Bittenger, looking her straight in
the eyes, 'I'm just GLAD I missed my steamer. It gives me a chance to
spend a Christmas in England, and in your delightful society--your
delightful society--' He gazed at her, without adding to the sentence.
If this was not love-making on a sofa, what could be?
Mr Bittenger had certainly missed the Liverpool express on purpose. Of
that Vera was convinced. Or, if he had not missed it on purpose, he had
missed it under the dictates of the mysterious power of the dream.
Those people who chose to believe that dreams are nonsense were at
liberty to do so.