LITMIR.BIZ

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for that matter to say that he mustn’t express his desires to her?”

      “None,” said Ransford, “provided he only does it once—and takes the answer he gets as final.”

      “I disagree with you entirely,” retorted Bryce. “On the last particular, at any rate. A man who considers any word of a woman’s as being final is a fool. What a woman thinks on Monday she’s almost dead certain not to think on Tuesday. The whole history of human relationship is on my side there. It’s no opinion—it’s a fact.”

      Ransford stared at this frank remark, and Bryce went on, coolly and imperturbably, as if he had been discussing a medical problem.

      “A man who takes a woman’s first answer as final,” he continued, “is, I repeat, a fool. There are lots of reasons why a woman shouldn’t know her own mind at the first time of asking. She may be too surprised. She mayn’t be quite decided. She may say one thing when she really means another. That often happens. She isn’t much better equipped at the second time of asking. And there are women—young ones—who aren’t really certain of themselves at the third time. All that’s common sense.”

      “I’ll tell you what it is!” suddenly exclaimed Ransford, after remaining silent for a moment under this flow of philosophy. “I’m not going to discuss theories and ideas. I know one young woman, at any rate, who is certain of herself. Miss Bewery does not feel any inclination to you—now, nor at any time to be! She’s told you so three times. And—you should take her answer and behave yourself accordingly!”

      Bryce favoured his senior with a searching look.

      “How does Miss Bewery know that she mayn’t be inclined to—in the future?” he asked. “She may come to regard me with favour.”

      “No, she won’t!” declared Ransford. “Better hear the truth, and be done with it. She doesn’t like you—and she doesn’t want to, either. Why can’t you take your answer like a man?”

      “What’s your conception of a man?” asked Bryce.

      “That!—and a good one,” exclaimed Ransford.

      “May satisfy you—but not me,” said Bryce. “Mine’s different. My conception of a man is of a being who’s got some perseverance. You can get anything in this world—anything!—by pegging away for it.”

      “You’re not going to get my ward,” suddenly said Ransford. “That’s flat! She doesn’t want you—and she’s now said so three times. And—I support her.”

      “What have you against me?” asked Bryce calmly. “If, as you say, you support her in her resolution not to listen to my proposals, you must have something against me. What is it?”

      “That’s a question you’ve no right to put,” replied Ransford, “for it’s utterly unnecessary. So I’m not going to answer it. I’ve nothing against you as regards your work—nothing! I’m willing to give you an excellent testimonial.”

      “Oh!” remarked Bryce quietly. “That means—you wish me to go away?”

      “I certainly think it would be best,” said Ransford.

      “In that case,” continued Bryce, more coolly than ever, “I shall certainly want to know what you have against me—or what Miss Bewery has against me. Why am I objected to as a suitor? You, at any rate, know who I am—you know that my father is of our own profession, and a man of reputation and standing, and that I myself came to you on high recommendation. Looked at from my standpoint, I’m a thoroughly eligible young man. And there’s a point you forget—there’s no mystery about me!”

      Ransford turned sharply in his chair as he noticed the emphasis which Bryce put on his last word.

      “What do you mean?” he demanded.

      “What I’ve just said,” replied Bryce. “There’s no mystery attaching to me. Any question about me can be answered. Now, you can’t say that as regards your ward. That’s a fact, Dr. Ransford.”

      Ransford, in years gone by, had practised himself in the art of restraining his temper—naturally a somewhat quick one. And he made a strong effort in that direction now, recognizing that there was something behind his assistant’s last remark, and that Bryce meant him to know it was there.

      “I’ll repeat what I’ve just said,” he answered. “What do you mean by that?”

      “I hear things,” said Bryce. “People will talk—even a doctor can’t refuse to hear what gossiping and garrulous patients say. Since she came to you from school, a year ago, Wrychester people have been much interested in Miss Bewery, and in her brother, too. And there are a good many residents of the Close—you know their nice, inquisitive ways!—who want to know who the sister and brother really are—and what your relationship is to them!”

      “Confound their impudence!” growled Ransford.

      “By all means,” agreed Bryce. “And—for all I care—let them be confounded, too. But if you imagine that the choice and select coteries of a cathedral town, consisting mainly of the relicts of deceased deans, canons, prebendaries and the like, and of maiden aunts, elderly spinsters, and tea-table-haunting curates, are free from gossip—why, you’re a singularly innocent person!”

      “They’d better not begin gossiping about my affairs,” said Ransford. “Otherwise—”

      “You can’t stop them from gossiping about your affairs,” interrupted Bryce cheerfully. “Of course they gossip about your affairs; have gossiped about them; will continue to gossip about them. It’s human nature!”

      “You’ve heard them?” asked Ransford, who was too vexed to keep back his curiosity. “You yourself?”

      “As you are aware, I am often asked out to tea,” replied Bryce, “and to garden-parties, and tennis-parties, and choice and cosy functions patronized by curates and associated with crumpets. I have heard—with these ears. I can even repeat the sort of thing I have heard. ‘That dear, delightful Miss Bewery—what a charming girl! And that good-looking boy, her brother—quite a dear! Now I wonder who they really are? Wards of Dr. Ransford, of course! Really, how very romantic!—and just a little—eh?—unusual? Such a comparatively young man to have such a really charming girl as his ward! Can’t be more than forty-five himself, and she’s twenty—how very, very romantic! Really, one would think there ought to be a chaperon!’”

      “Damn!” said Ransford under his breath.

      “Just so,” agreed Bryce. “But—that’s the sort of thing. Do you want more? I can supply an unlimited quantity in the piece if you like. But it’s all according to sample.”

      “So—in addition to your other qualities,” remarked Ransford, “you’re a gossiper?”

      Bryce smiled slowly and shook his head.

      “No,” he replied. “I’m a listener. A good one, too. But do you see my point? I say—there’s no mystery about me. If Miss Bewery will honour me with her hand, she’ll get a man whose antecedents will bear the strictest investigation.”

      “Are you inferring that hers won’t?” demanded Ransford.

      “I’m not inferring anything,” said Bryce. “I am speaking for myself, of myself. Pressing my own claim, if you like, on you, the guardian. You might do much worse than support my claims, Dr. Ransford.”

      “Claims, man!” retorted Ransford. “You’ve got no claims! What are you talking about? Claims!”

      “My pretensions, then,” answered Bryce. “If there is a mystery—as Wrychester people say there is—about Miss Bewery, it would be safe with me. Whatever you may think, I’m a thoroughly dependable man—when it’s in my own interest.”

      “And—when it isn’t?” asked Ransford. “What are you then?—as you’re so candid.”

      “I

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