Bryce made no reply. He remained leaning against the table,
watching Ransford write the cheque. And when Ransford laid
the cheque down at the edge of the desk he made no movement
towards it.

"You must see," remarked Ransford, half apologetically, "that
it's the only thing I can do. I can't have any man who's not
--not welcome to her, to put it plainly--causing any annoyance
to my ward. I repeat, Bryce--you must see it!"

"I have nothing to do with what you see," answered Bryce.
"Your opinions are not mine, and mine aren't yours. You're
really turning me away--as if I were a dishonest foreman!
--because in my opinion it would be a very excellent thing for
her and for myself if Miss Bewery would consent to marry me.
That's the plain truth."

Ransford allowed himself to take a long and steady look at
Bryce. The thing was done now, and his dismissed assistant
seemed to be taking it quietly--and Ransford's curiosity was
aroused.

"I can't make you out!" he exclaimed. "I don't know whether
you're the most cynical young man I ever met, or whether
you're the most obtuse--"

"Not the last, anyway," interrupted Bryce. "I assure you of
that!"