“There’s Martin, Dick!” she said.  “You’ll have to hurry.”

Many a long year before that, in one of the bygone centuries, a worthy citizen of Wrychester, Martin by name, had left a sum of money to the Dean and Chapter of the Cathedral on condition that as long as ever the Cathedral stood, they should cause to be rung a bell from its smaller bell-tower for three minutes before nine o’clock every morning, all the year round.  What Martin’s object had been no one now knew—­but this bell served to remind young gentlemen going to offices, and boys going to school, that the hour of their servitude was near.  And Dick Bewery, without a word, bolted half his coffee, snatched up his book, grabbed at a cap which lay with more books on a chair close by, and vanished through the open window.  The doctor laughed, laid aside his newspaper, and handed his cup across the table.

“I don’t think you need bother yourself 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.”