A tall, athletic figure came between him and the light, and Angus Reay's voice addressed him—
"Hullo, David! A merry Christmas to you! Do you know you are standing out in the cold? What would Miss Mary say?"
"Miss Mary" was the compromise Angus hit upon between "Miss Deane" and "Mary,"—considering the first term too formal, and the last too familiar.
Helmsley smiled.
"Miss Mary has gone to church,"—he replied—"I thought you had gone too."
Reay gave a slight gesture of mingled regret and annoyance.
"No—I never go to church,"—he said—"But don't you think I despise the going. Not I. I wish I could go to church! I'd give anything to go as I used to do with my father every Sunday."
"And why can't you?"
"Because the church is not what it used to be,"—declared Reay—"Don't get me on that argument, David, or I shall never cease talking! Now, see here!—if you stand any longer at that open door you'll get a chill! You go inside the house and imitate Charlie's example—look at him!" And he pointed to the tiny toy terrier snuggled up as usual in a ball of silky comfort on the warm hearth—"Small epicure! Come back to your chair, David, and sit by the fire—your hands are quite cold."
Helmsley yielded to the persuasion, not because he felt cold, but because he was rather inclined to be alone with Reay for a little. They entered the house and shut the door.