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Page 2
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."
"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--after 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."
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