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"You must see," remarked Ransford, half apologetically, "that it's the only thing I can do. I can't have any man who's not—not welcome to her, to put it plainly—causing any annoyance to my ward. I repeat, Bryce—you must see it!"

"I have nothing to do with what you see," answered Bryce. "Your opinions are not mine, and mine aren't yours. You're really turning me away—as if I were a dishonest foreman!—because in my opinion it would be a very excellent thing for her and for myself if Miss Bewery would consent to marry me. That's the plain truth."

Ransford allowed himself to take a long and steady look at Bryce. The thing was done now, and his dismissed assistant seemed to be taking it quietly—and Ransford's curiosity was aroused.

"I can't make you out!" he exclaimed. "I don't know whether you're the most cynical young man I ever met, or whether you're the most obtuse—"

"Not the last, anyway," interrupted Bryce. "I assure you of that!"

"Can't you see for yourself, then, man, that the girl doesn't want you!" said Ransford. "Hang it!—for anything you know to the contrary, she may have—might have—other ideas!"

Bryce, who had been staring out of a side window for the last minute or two, suddenly laughed, and, lifting a hand, pointed into the garden. And Ransford turned—and saw Mary Bewery walking there with a tall lad, whom he recognized as one Sackville Bonham, stepson of Mr. Folliot, a wealthy resident of the Close. The two young people were laughing and chatting together with evident great friendliness.