“I have not been thinking about the matter at all,” she answered, turning her head a little aside from his direct gaze. “But I do think so of course. After all why should you not wish it?” “You think me likely to want anything that would part us—that is the way my manner strikes you?” He was surprised to find his voice not absolutely steady. She favoured him with a short stare from under her lids. “You seem to forget that I have your own word that you insisted on our going. Possibly you have changed your mind, but I have made mine up.” She made a motion as if to pass in, and go on toward the library. “I have changed so completely since I saw you,” said Geoffrey, “that I scarcely recognise life in this—this ecstasy. That is the only change. Am I likely to turn you out when I have been waiting all my life for you to come?” It had been with her own dream, her own credulity with which she had been fighting quite as much as with Holland, and the charm began to work once again. She said very coolly: “You are very kind, but as you said, we ought to be starting,—or have you forgotten saying that?” “Be just. You knew I was going too. You knew I urged our going because—” “Well, why?” Her look was still from half-shut lids, but the lines of her mouth had softened by not a little. “There is a danger of being snowed up here. Now I appreciate that there would be greater danger in starting out so late. And,—and equally desperate for me, whatever we do.” “Desperate?” “If you only want an opportunity to think so meanly of me,—to hate me, as your look said.” “I do not hate you.” “You are very eager to be rid of my company.” “I did not understand.” “You are going to stay?” “Until we can go safely.” “Not longer?” As this was a question obviously impossible to answer directly she said, “We are under sufficiently large obligations to you already.” And Geoffrey, about to answer, looked up and saw McVay was observing them with satisfaction, so that words froze on his lips. Here was the whole bitterness of the situation concentrated. To be observed at all in a moment of genuine emotion was bad enough, but to be observed by one who so plainly hoped to profit, was unbearable. Never, said Geoffrey to himself, at that glance of triumph from McVay’s clear little eyes, never should any influence lead him to let a thief slip through his fingers. He realised too, for the first time, that he could not hope for another word alone with Cecilia. McVay must always be present. It was a hideous sort of revenge that every waking minute must be spent in the man’s company. Geoffrey had not appreciated the full meaning of his instructions to McVay to keep always in sight. Not a word or a look could be exchanged without McVay’s seeing and rejoicing. Yet, in spite of his irritation, he could not but admire the sort of affectionate swagger with which McVay rose to greet her, as if the brother of so tender a creature must remember his responsibility.