To Geoffrey this sort of thing was unspeakably painful.  He was willing enough to meet McVay in a grim interchange over his strange combination of facility and crime, of doom and triviality.  But when it became any question of playing upon Cecilia’s unconsciousness of the situation, he writhed.  Yet, a little discernment would have shown him how natural, how encouraging from his own point of view her unconsciousness was.  To fall in love thoroughly is sufficiently disconcerting.  Which of us needs to be told that it is an absorbing process, that life looks different, and that all past experiences must be reviewed in the light of this unexpected illumination.  And if this is true of the more usual forms of the great passion, what is to be said of a girl who, in a single day, sees and loves a rescuer, a handsome powerful young creature, who comes to her with all the attributes of a soldier and a prince, who comes not only to save and protect, but as host and dispenser of all comfort and beauty.

It was not to be wondered at that she was dazzled and aware of one fact, one personality, that far from being able to draw shrewd conclusions from the little happenings going on before her, she was but dimly aware of the existence of her brother, of the world, of anything but Geoffrey.

Presently she said, as if trying to call up the picture: 

“And this is where you sat all night?” And if the thought was interesting to her, it was not on account of her brother’s share in it.

“Yes,” returned McVay, springing lightly to his feet.  “Here we sat discussing plans for your safety.”  He took a step toward the pair at the fire, and then remembering, stopped.  “Please move a little back, Holland,” he said, “I want to get nearer the fire.  I’m cold.”

[Illustration:  “PLEASE MOVE A LITTLE BACK, HOLLAND,” HE SAID, “I WANT TO GET NEARER THE FIRE”]

“You can go to the fire,” said Geoffrey, with a gesture of permission.

“Of course you can,” said the girl, “Mr. Holland is not in your way, Billy.”

But Billy continued to eye his host.  “Oh, no, you don’t,” he said warily.  “Not unless you move back.  Do move, there’s a good fellow.”  And Geoffrey laughed and moved, somewhat to the girl’s mystification.  She forgot to wonder, however, in pursuing the more wonderful train of thought which had already been occupying her.  Suppose that their plans for her relief had been decided differently, suppose her brother had come for her instead of the magnificent stranger, with what different eyes she might now be looking on life—­this ecstasy as Holland had defined it.  Curious to know by what accident she had been so blessed, she asked: 

“Why was it, Billy, that you did not come after me yourself?”

“Just what I said to him,” replied McVay eagerly.  “If I said once, I said a dozen times:  ’Holland, it is my duty and pleasure, it is my right to go,’ but ...”  McVay shrugged his shoulders, “when he once gets an idea into his head, it takes a gimlet to get it out.”