lf about Dick's ever being late,
Mary," he said. "You are not quite aware of the power of legs that are
only seventeen years old. Dick could get to any given point in just
about one-fourth of the time that I could, for instance--moreover, he
has a cunning knowledge of every short cut in the city."

Mary Bewery took the empty cup and began to refill it.

"I don't like him to be late," she remarked. "It's the beginning of bad
habits."

"Oh, well!" said Ransford indulgently. "He's pretty free from anything
of that sort, you know. I haven't even suspected him of smoking, yet."

"That's because he thinks smoking would stop his growth and interfere
with his cricket," answered Mary. "He would smoke if it weren't for
that."

"That's giving him high praise, then," said Ransford. "You couldn't
give him higher! Know how to repress his inclinations. An excellent
thing--and most unusual, I fancy. Most people--don't!"

He took his refilled cup, rose from the table, and opened a box of
cigarettes which stood on the mantelpiece. And the girl, instead of
picking up her letter again, glanced at him a little doubtfully.

"That reminds me of--of something I wanted to say to you," she said.
"You're quite right about people not repressing their inclinations. I--I
wish some people would!"

Ransford turned quickly from the hearth and gave her a sharp look,
beneath which her colour heightened. Her eyes shifted their gaze away to
her letter, and she picked it up and began to fold it nervously. And at
that Ransford rapped out a name, putting a quick suggestion of meaning
inquiry into his voice.

"Bryce?" he asked.

The girl nodded her face showing distinct annoyance and dislike. Before
saying more, Ransford lighted a cigarette.

"Been at it again?" he said at last. "Since last time?"

"Twice," she answered. "I didn't like to tell you--I've hated to bother
you about it. But--what am I to do? I dislike him intensely--I can't
tell why, but it's there, and nothing could ever alter the feeling.
And though I told him--before--that it was useless--he mentioned it
again--yesterday--at Mrs. Folliot's garden-party."

"Confound his impudence!" growled Ransford. "Oh, well!--I'll have to
settle with him myself. It's useless trifling with anything like that. I
gave him a quiet hint before. And since he won't take it--all right!"

"But--what shall you do?" she asked anxiously. "Not--send him away?"

"If he's any decency about him, he'll go--af