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.”

[Illustration:  “I HAVE HERE A SLIGHT TOKEN, IN HONOR OF THE DAY”]

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.