“My dear fellow, such a smut on your forehead, pray allow me—”
“My dear fellow—pray allow me”
“Look out,” roared Geoffrey, realising how easily in another second his revolver might be taken from him. The tone was alarming, and McVay sprang back ten feet. “I was afraid of burning you with the soup,” Geoffrey explained politely.
“I own you made me jump,” said McVay.
The girl said nothing, and Geoffrey feared the incident had made an unfortunate impression on her.
It appeared to be completely forgotten, however, when they presently sat down to their Christmas dinner, of which they all expressed themselves as inordinately proud. There was canned soup, and sardines and toasted biscuits, canned corned beef, potatoes and fried hominy, bacon and a potato salad, a bottle of champagne, and finally the wedding cake.
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.