“Well, then, I must go and get her.”
Geoffrey stared at him a moment, and then said: “You must be crazy.”
“Maybe I am,” answered McVay, as if the suggestion were not without an amusing side. “Maybe I am, but that is not the point. Think of a girl, Holland, alone, all night, in such a storm. Now, I put it to you: it is not a position in which you would leave your sister, is it?”
Geoffrey began a sentence and finding it inadequate, contented himself with a laugh.
“There you see,” said McVay. “It’s out of the question. The place is draughty, too, though there is a stove. Do you remember the house at all? You would be surprised to see how nicely I’ve fixed it up for her.”
“No doubt I should,” replied Holland, thinking of the Vaughan and Marheim valuables.
“It is surprisingly livable, but it is draughty,” McVay went on. “The truth is I ought to have gone south, as I meant to do last week. But one cannot foresee everything. The winters have been open until Christmas so often lately. However, I made a mistake and I am perfectly willing to rectify it. If you have no objection, I’ll go and bring her back here.”
“If you have any respect for your skin you won’t move from that chair.”
“Oh, the devil, Holland, don’t be so—” he hesitated for the right word, not wishing to be unjust,—“so obtuse. Listen to that wind! It’s cold here. Think what it must be in that shanty.”
“Very unpleasant, I should think.”