“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.”