But Billy continued to eye his host. “Oh, no, you don’t,” he said warily. “Not unless you move back. Do move, there’s a good fellow.” And Geoffrey laughed and moved, somewhat to the girl’s mystification. She forgot to wonder, however, in pursuing the more wonderful train of thought which had already been occupying her. Suppose that their plans for her relief had been decided differently, suppose her brother had come for her instead of the magnificent stranger, with what different eyes she might now be looking on life—this ecstasy as Holland had defined it. Curious to know by what accident she had been so blessed, she asked: “Why was it, Billy, that you did not come after me yourself?” “Just what I said to him,” replied McVay eagerly. “If I said once, I said a dozen times: ‘Holland, it is my duty and pleasure, it is my _right_ to go,’ but ...” McVay shrugged his shoulders, “when he once gets an idea into his head, it takes a gimlet to get it out.” “Upon my word, Billy,” the girl said indignantly, “I don’t think you ought to talk like that even in fun. You know perfectly well that Mr. Holland only insisted on going because he thought he was better able to bear the physical strain.” “Physical strain!” exclaimed McVay colouring to the roots of his sandy hair, from pure annoyance; “I don’t know what you mean,... Holland is, of course, a larger man than I, but not stronger.... Oh, well, as far as mere brute force goes, perhaps, but in the matter of bearing physical strain, you betray the most absurd ignorance. It is well known scientifically that medium-sized men like myself, when their muscles are at all developed (and you know my muscles), are better fitted for endurance than any of these over-grown giants.” “Then,” said she calmly, “if you knew you were better fitted I can’t see why you did not go.” “You are not quite fair to your brother,” said Geoffrey interrupting, for McVay looked as if he would explode in another moment under the sense of injustice. “He did propose going himself, but I would not let him; I—I made it a personal matter.” “Very personal,” replied McVay with feeling. “I’ll just explain how it was. Last night, as soon as I realised how bad the storm was, I made up my mind that I had better attempt to enter the house. I succeeded after some trouble, came to this room, turned on the light—a spooky thing; an empty house, picked up a book, had quite forgotten my position, the world, everything, when a voice at my elbow said: ‘Fond of reading?’ I was never more surprised in my life. I felt distinctly caught,—an interloper. And to make matters worse, I saw that Holland did not at once recognise me. I made every effort to leave, but he would not hear of such a thing. He made it perfectly plain in fact that it was his wish to keep me. I yielded. That, I think, Holland, is a pretty accurate account of the night’s proceeding, isn’t it?”