'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.