“I see no reason to think that he’s not quite competent to make a will,” said Doctor Mary.  “And no real reason why he shouldn’t prefer you to distant relations whom he dislikes.”

“Ah, no real reason; that’s what you say!  You mean that people would impute—­”

Mary Arkroyd had her limitations—­of experience, of knowledge, of intuition.  But she did not lack courage.

“I have given you my professional opinion.  It is that, so far as I see, Mr. Saffron is of perfectly sound understanding, and capable of making a valid will.  You did me the honor—­”

“No, no!” he interrupted in a low but rather strangely vehement protest.  “I begged the favor—­”

“As you like!  The favor then, of asking me to give you my opinion as your friend, as well as my view as Mr. Saffron’s doctor.”

Beaumaroy did not rise from his knees, but turned his face towards her; the logs had blazed up, and his eyes looked curiously bright in the glare, themselves, as it were, afire.

“In my opinion a man of sensitive honor would prefer that that will should not be made, Mr. Beaumaroy,” said Mary steadily.

Beaumaroy appeared to consider.  “I’m a bit posed by that point of view, Dr. Arkroyd,” he said at last, “Either the old man’s sane—­compos mentis, don’t you call it?—­or he isn’t.  If he is—­”

“I know.  But I feel that way about it.”

“You’d have to give evidence for me!” He raised his brows and smiled at her.

“There can be undue influence without actual want of mental competence, I think.”

“I don’t know whether my influence is undue.  I believe I’m the only creature alive who cares twopence for the poor old gentleman.”

“I know!  I know!  Mr. Beaumaroy, your position is very difficult.  I see that.  It really is.  But, would you take the money for yourself?  Aren’t you—­well, rather in the position of a trustee?”

“Who for?  The hated cousins?  What’s the reason in that?”

“They may be very good people really.  Old men take fancies, as you said yourself.  And they may have built on—­”

“Stepping into a dead man’s shoes?  I dare say.  Why mayn’t I build on it too?  Why not my hand against the other fellow’s?”

“That’s what you learnt from the war!  You said so—­at Old Place.  Captain Naylor said something different.”

“Suppose Alec Naylor and I, a hero and a damaged article,” he smiled at Mary, and she smiled back with a sudden enjoyment of the humorous yet bitter tang in his voice, “loved the same woman, and I had a chance of her.  Am I to give it up?”

“Really we’re getting a long way from medicine, Mr. Beaumaroy!”

“Oh, you’re a general practitioner!  Wise on all subjects under heaven!  Conceive yourself hesitating between him and me—­”

Mary laughed frankly.  “How absurd you are!  If you must go on talking, talk seriously.”

“But why am I absurd?”