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.’