In the kitchen McVay made it evident that his talents were for organisation rather than for hard labour. He drew a chair near the wall, and tilting back at his ease, watched Geoffrey and Cecilia at work. Geoffrey, engaged in lighting the range-fire, looked up at her as she moved about filling the kettle and washing out pots and pans, and thought that he and she presented the aspect of a young couple of the labouring class with no further ambition than to keep a roof over their heads. He almost had it in his heart to wish that they were.

She proved herself infinitely more capable than the two men had been, discovering tins of butter and soup and sardines, a package of hominy, apples and potatoes in the cellar, and an old box of wedding cake, which, with a burning brandy sauce, she declared would serve very well for plum-pudding.

Manual labour was such a novelty to Geoffrey that he soon forgot even his irritation against McVay and the triangular intercourse was more friendly than before, until marred by an unfortunate incident.

He was standing in the middle of the kitchen with a steaming pot in each hand, when McVay, without warning, advanced toward him, handkerchief in hand, exclaiming:

“My dear fellow, such a smut on your forehead, pray allow me—”

“Look out,” roared Geoffrey, realising how easily in another second his revolver might be taken from him. The tone was alarming, and McVay sprang back ten feet. “I was afraid of burning you with the soup,” Geoffrey explained politely.

“I own you made me jump,” said McVay.

The girl said nothing, and Geoffrey feared the incident had made an unfortunate impression on her.

It appeared to be completely forgotten, however, when they presently sat down to their Christmas dinner, of which they all expressed themselves as inordinately proud. There was canned soup, and sardines and toasted biscuits, canned corned beef, potatoes and fried hominy, bacon and a potato salad, a bottle of champagne, and finally the wedding cake.

Now to say that by the time dessert was put on table McVay was drunk would be to do him a gross injustice. All the more genial side of this nature, however, was distinctly emphasised. The better part of a quart of champagne had not produced any signs of intoxication; his eye was clear, his speech perfect, and he was more than usually aware of his own powers, confident of appreciation.

As he finished his share of cake, he rose to his feet, and leaning the tips of his fingers on the table, addressed Geoffrey.

“My dear Holland,” he said, “I will not wish you a Merry Christmas, for it has already been as merry as it has lain within my poor capacity to make it. Let me, however, express my own gratitude to you for this delightful occasion. You have referred to the fare as meagre, to our position as constrained, but believe me, I am not exaggerating when I say that I so little agree with you that I am confident that, during many of the remaining years of my life I shall look back to this Christmas as one of unusual luxury and freedom. It is, perhaps, the warm glow of friendship that gilds all small discomforts, for in situations like ours characters are tested, and yours, Holland,” he paused impressively, “has stood the test.”

Geoffrey bowed gratefully, and McVay continued:

“I have here a slight token in honour of the day. It is of little pecuniary value, but between us, Holland, pecuniary value is no longer mentioned. I feel that it will be recommended to you more than mere worth could recommend it by the fact that it is peculiarly my own,—my own as few human possessions can be said to be. I offer it,” he said, drawing from his pocket a square flat little package, “with best wishes for a happy New Year.”

The idea that McVay was going to give him a present had never crossed Geoffrey’s mind, and now it struck him as so characteristic, so perfectly in keeping with McVay’s consuming desire to triumph in minor matters, that he was able to smile pleasantly and receive it appropriately. He exchanged a glance of real appreciation with the donor, and received a grave bow in return.

Cecilia smiled, too, “I don’t know exactly why you should think Mr. Holland wants your picture, Billy,” she said.

“It may be of the greatest service to him,” said McVay.

The girl turned to Geoffrey. “I can’t make a speech like Billy’s,” she said, “but I have a small present for you which I hope you won’t despise because it is not new. I mean I have worn it myself for some time, and I hope you will now, in remembrance of the time when you sheltered the houseless.” She held out on her pink palm a flat gold pencil with a single topaz set in the top.

The thing was of some value and Geoffrey, looking up, caught McVay’s eye in which danced such a delicious merriment that Geoffrey’s half-formed question was answered. McVay was undergoing such paroxysms of delight at the idea that Geoffrey was about to become a receiver of stolen goods that he could not well conceal it. And instinctively Geoffrey drew back his hand. The next moment he realised that he must at once accept the gift with decent gratitude, whatever he might choose to do with it afterward, but unfortunately the girl had noticed his hesitation.

She said nothing whatsoever, but she closed her hand on the pencil, rose from the table, and left them to dispose of the remains of the feast as best they could.

McVay, as if he had observed nothing, threw himself at once into the part of a waiter, tucked a napkin round his waist, flung another over his arm and began to clear the table.

“Wait a moment,” said Geoffrey, who had not followed his example; “I have something to say to you. I see you are in possession of my sentiments in regard to your sister.... I think her a wonder,—that’s all it is necessary for you to know.”

“Quite naturally, Holland. She is, she is.”

“I won’t discuss that with you. The point is that you seem to be under the impression that this will do you some good. Well, it won’t. You stand just where you did before. You go to jail when the snow melts. Then I settle my affairs.”

McVay’s face fell. “Really, Holland,” he said, “I don’t see how, if you are fond of a woman you can want ...”

“... to spare her such a brother as you. Think it over.”

“There are worse brothers than I,” replied McVay, “how many men would have sacrificed what I have sacrificed in order to keep her comfortably.”

“Not many, I hope.”

“She is extraordinarily fond of me.”

“Perhaps. You see she has not any one else to be fond of.”

“We can scarcely say that now,” returned McVay encouragingly.

“I won’t discuss it with you.”

“You can’t mean to tell me that you are in love with my sister and mean to send me to state’s prison?”

“I mean exactly that.”

“Why, she’d never forgive you.”

Geoffrey thought this so probable that he had no answer to give and presently McVay, who had been grumbling over the matter to himself, asked: “Are you serious, Holland?”

“What do you suppose I am?” Geoffrey roared, and McVay, shaking his head went on with the work of clearing the table. He was very silent and abstracted and for the first time seemed to realise his position. When they had put away the last plate, Geoffrey said:

“Now come to the library. I am going to give you a pipe, confound you.”

“A pipe! Why?”

“Because I want to give your sister something, and I think she would be more apt to take it.”

“I’m afraid she is rather offended by the way you treated her little gift. As a matter of fact I was the person to be offended, for I had given her the pencil. A pretty little thing, singularly like one which you may have seen Mrs.—”

“Don’t tell me where you took it from. I don’t want to know. Come and get your pipe and mind you are grateful.”

“A pipe,” observed McVay thoughtfully. “I think I’ll take that large meerschaum on the mantelpiece.”

Geoffrey laughed. “I think you won’t,” he answered. “The best pipe I own! No, indeed, you’ll take a horrid little one that won’t draw. It will be just the thing for you.”

“No,” said McVay, “no. You must give me the big one. Otherwise I shall make it appear that you promised the other to me, and turned mean at the last moment. And I can do it, Holland.” His little eyes gleamed at the thought. “I shall say, ‘My dear fellow, I’m glad you changed your mind about the meerschaum; it was as you say, too handsome for a man in my position.’ That will make her mad if anything will. You know she is not quite satisfied with the way you treat me, as it is.”

This was quite true, and Geoffrey, remembering that the object of the gift was to please the girl, reluctantly agreed to part with his favourite pipe. The affair went off well. McVay affected to hesitate over accepting so handsome an offering, and Geoffrey pressed it upon him with a good grace.

As far as his present to the girl was concerned, he found himself less and less willing to make it in McVay’s presence, and more and more unable to think of any way of getting rid of him except murder or the cedar-closet. His anxiety was rendered more acute by the fact that once or twice he could not help suspecting that Cecilia, in spite of her anger, would have been glad of a few words alone with him, also.

Before very long she suggested that McVay should take her hat and coat upstairs for her.

“Certainly I will,” cried Billy, springing up with alacrity, and was at the door before Holland’s warning shout “McVay” stopped him.

“Let me take it up for your sister,” he said warningly.

“Oh, not at all. Let me,” replied McVay courteously.

“Couldn’t hear of it,” returned Geoffrey.

By this time they were both outside of the door, and Geoffrey closed it with a snap.

“You would, would you?” he said angrily.

“Now, Holland,” said McVay as one who intends to introduce reason into an irrational confusion, “this is exactly a case in point. I am by nature a gallant man. I forgot all about your instructions.”

“I wonder?” said Geoffrey.

“It was instinctive to do my sister the little favour she asked. Yes, and I doubt if I should have acted differently if your pistol had been at my head. She asked me. That was enough.”

“I’ve warned you once.”

“Holland, I think,—you’ll excuse my telling you,—that you have a very unfortunate manner at times.”

They went upstairs together and were descending when Geoffrey stopped, with his eyes on the grand piano which stood in the hall below them.

“Can you play?” he said.

McVay brightened at once. He had been looking a little glum since his last speech. “Yes,” he answered, “I can. Well, I’m not a professional, you understand, but for an amateur I am supposed to have as much technique and a good deal more sentiment than most.”

“I don’t care how you play,” said Holland. “There is a piano. Sit down and play, and don’t stop.”

“No, Holland, no,” said the other with unusual firmness; “that I will not do. No artist would. Ask any one. It is impossible to play in public without practice. I have not touched the instrument for over a year.”

“You can do all the practising you like here and now. You can play finger exercises for all I care. All I insist is that you should make a noise so that I’ll know you are there.”

“Well,” said McVay yielding, “you must remember to make allowances. Not the best musician could sit down after a year ... however, I dare say it will come back to me quicker than to most people. You must make allowances for my lack of practice.”

“There is only one thing I won’t make allowances for, and that is your moving from that music stool.”

He opened the piano, and McVay sat down waving his fingers to loosen the joints. He sat with his head on one side, as if waiting to discover which of the great composers was about to inspire him. Then he dropped lightly upon the notes, lifting his chin, as if surprised to find that an air of Schubert’s was growing under his fingers. Geoffrey was astonished to find that he really was, as he said, something of an artist. He waited until he was fairly started and then returned to the library.

“Is that Billy?” said the girl. “It must be a great pleasure to him to have a piano again. He is so fond of music.”

“He was not as eager to play as I to have him,” said Geoffrey.

He came back quietly, and stood looking down at her for a moment. Then he said, stretching out his hand:

“I want my Christmas present.”

“I have none to give you.”

“You had.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Why?”

For the first time she looked at him. “Mr. Holland,” she said, “you must think me singularly unobservant. Do you suppose I don’t see that you dislike my brother. You refused the pencil—you did refuse it plainly enough—because Billy had given it to me. I will not offer it to you again. I know that Billy sometimes does rub people up the wrong way, but I should think any one of any discernment could see that his faults are only faults of manner.”

She said this almost appealingly, and Geoffrey unable to agree, turned with something like a groan, and resting his elbows on the mantelpiece, covered his face with his hands.

“Do you suppose that he does not see how you feel toward him? Are you by any chance assuming that he bears with your manner on account of his own comfort? You might at least be generous or acute enough to see that it is only for my sake that he exercises so much self-control. He does not want to make my position here more unendurable by quarrelling with you. It makes me furious to see what you force him to put up with, the way you speak to him, and look at him, as if he were your slave, or a disobedient dog. His self-control is wonderful. I admire him more than I can say.”

“And is my self-control nothing?” he asked, without moving his hands from his face.

“Yours? I don’t see any exercise of yours. Circumstances have put us at your mercy, you are rich and fortunate, and as insolent as you choose to be. Self-control? I don’t see any evidence of it.”

“No?” he said, and turning, looked at her with a violence that might have set her on the right track. Under his eyes she looked down and probably in the instant forgot all that she had been saying and feeling, for when he added: “I love you,” her hands moved toward his, and she made no resistance when he took her in his arms.