"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.