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.”