“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 could be a very bad enemy,” replied Bryce.

There was a moment’s silence, during which the two men looked attentively at each other.

“I’ve told you the truth,” said Ransford at last.  “Miss Bewery flatly refuses to entertain any idea whatever of ever marrying you.  She earnestly hopes that that eventuality may never be mentioned to her again.  Will you give me your word of honour to respect her wishes?”

“No!” answered Bryce.  “I won’t!”

“Why not?” asked Ransford, with a faint show of anger.  “A woman’s wishes!”