“No, Holland, no,” said the other with unusual firmness; “that I will not do.  No artist would.  Ask any one.  It is impossible to play in public without practice.  I have not touched the instrument for over a year.”

“You can do all the practising you like here and now.  You can play finger exercises for all I care.  All I insist is that you should make a noise so that I’ll know you are there.”

“Well,” said McVay yielding, “you must remember to make allowances.  Not the best musician could sit down after a year ... however, I dare say it will come back to me quicker than to most people.  You must make allowances for my lack of practice.”

“There is only one thing I won’t make allowances for, and that is your moving from that music stool.”

He opened the piano, and McVay sat down waving his fingers to loosen the joints.  He sat with his head on one side, as if waiting to discover which of the great composers was about to inspire him.  Then he dropped lightly upon the notes, lifting his chin, as if surprised to find that an air of Schubert’s was growing under his fingers.  Geoffrey was astonished to find that he really was, as he said, something of an artist.  He waited until he was fairly started and then returned to the library.

“Is that Billy?” said the girl.  “It must be a great pleasure to him to have a piano again.  He is so fond of music.”

“He was not as eager to play as I to have him,” said Geoffrey.

He came back quietly, and stood looking down at her for a moment.  Then he said, stretching out his hand: 

“I want my Christmas present.”

“I have none to give you.”

“You had.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Why?”

For the first time she looked at him.  “Mr. Holland,” she said, “you must think me singularly unobservant.  Do you suppose I don’t see that you dislike my brother.  You refused the pencil—­you did refuse it plainly enough—­because Billy had given it to me.  I will not offer it to you again.  I know that Billy sometimes does rub people up the wrong way, but I should think any one of any discernment could see that his faults are only faults of manner.”

She said this almost appealingly, and Geoffrey unable to agree, turned with something like a groan, and resting his elbows on the mantelpiece, covered his face with his hands.

“Do you suppose that he does not see how you feel toward him?  Are you by any chance assuming that he bears with your manner on account of his own comfort?  You might at least be generous or acute enough to see that it is only for my sake that he exercises so much self-control.  He does not want to make my position here more unendurable by quarrelling with you.  It makes me furious to see what you force him to put up with, the way you speak to him, and look at him, as if he were your slave, or a disobedient dog.  His self-control is wonderful.  I admire him more than I can say.”