“Now there, Holland, there is one of your philistine words,—­circumstantial!  It takes all poetry, all imagination out of a subject.  Do you know, the only connotation—­(are you familiar with that word?)—­the only suggestion it has for me is a jury?”

He scored distinctly.  Geoffrey had nothing to say in reply.

It was McVay himself, who, disliking a pause, observed that it was almost time to begin on the preparation of the Christmas dinner.  They all rose as if glad of a break.  As they passed out of the door, Geoffrey laid his hand on McVay’s arm.

“Why do you deliberately try to exasperate me?” he said.

McVay smiled.  “Why do little boys lay their tongues to lamp-posts in freezing weather?  Don’t I amuse you?  Be candid.”

“No.”

McVay looked regretful.  “As I remembered you, Holland, as a boy, you had more sense of humour,” he said gently.

VI

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—­”

[Illustration:  “MY DEAR FELLOW—­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.