“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.”
“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.