“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.