"I'm sorry to say what I must say," he began. "But--you've
brought it on yourself. I gave you a hint some time ago that
your attentions were not welcome to Miss Bewery."

Bryce made no immediate response. Instead, leaning almost
carelessly and indifferently against the table at which he had
been busy with drugs and bottles, he took a small file from
his waistcoat pocket and began to polish his carefully cut
nails.

"Yes?" he said, after a pause. "Well?"

"In spite of it," continued Ransford, "you've since addressed
her again on the matter--not merely once, but twice."

Bryce put his file away, and thrusting his hands in his
pockets, crossed his feet as he leaned back against the table
--his whole attitude suggesting, whether meaningly or not, that
he was very much at his ease.

"There's a great deal to be said on a point like this," he
observed. "If a man wishes a certain young woman to become
his wife, what right has any other man--or the young woman
herself, for that matter to say that he mustn't express his
desires to her?"

"None," said Ransford, "provided he only does it once--and
takes the answer he gets as final."

"I disagree with you entirely," retorted Bryce. "On the last