ter what I say to him,"
answered Ransford. "Don't you trouble yourself about it--I'm not at all
keen about him. He's a clever enough fellow, and a good assistant, but I
don't like him, personally--never did."

"I don't want to think that anything that I say should lose him his
situation--or whatever you call it," she remarked slowly. "That would
seem--"

"No need to bother," interrupted Ransford. "He'll get another in two
minutes--so to speak. Anyway, we can't have this going on. The fellow
must be an ass! When I was young--"

He stopped short at that, and turning away, looked out across the garden
as if some recollection had suddenly struck him.

"When you were young--which is, of course, such an awfully long time
since!" said the girl, a little teasingly. "What?"

"Only that if a woman said No--unmistakably--once, a man took it as
final," replied Ransford. "At least--so I was always given to believe.
Nowadays--"

"You forget that Mr. Pemberton Bryce is what most people would call a
very pushing young man," said Mary. "If he doesn't get what he wants in
this world, it won't be for not asking for it. But--if you must speak
to him--and I really think you must!--will you tell him that he is
not going to get--me? Perhaps he'll take it finally from you--as my
guardian."

"I don't know if parents and guardians count for much in these
degenerate days," said Ransford. "But--I won't have him annoying you.
And--I suppose it has come to annoyance?"

"It's very annoying to be asked three times by a man whom you've told
flatly, once for all, that you don't want him, at any time, ever!" she
answered. "It's--irritating!"

"All right," said Ransford quietly. "I'll speak to him. There's going to
be no annoyance for you under this roof."

The girl gave him a quick glance, and Ransford turned away from her and
picked up his letters.

"Thank you," she said. "But--there's no need to tell me that, because I
know it already. Now I wonder if you'll tell me something more?"

Ransford turned back with a sudden apprehension.

"Well?" he asked brusquely. "What?"

"When are you going to tell me all about--Dick and myself?" she asked.
"You promised that you would, you know, some day. And--a whole year's
gone by since then. And--Dick's seventeen! He won't be satisfied
always--just to know no more than that our father and mother died when
we were very little, and that you've been guardian--and all that you
have been!--to us. Will h