"I see no reason to think that he's not quite competent to make a will," said Doctor Mary. "And no real reason why he shouldn't prefer you to distant relations whom he dislikes."
"Ah, no real reason; that's what you say! You mean that people would impute——?"
Mary Arkroyd had her limitations—of experience, of knowledge, of intuition. But she did not lack courage.
"I have given you my professional opinion. It is that, so far as I see, Mr. Saffron is of perfectly sound understanding, and capable of making a valid will. You did me the honour——"
"No, no!" he interrupted in a low but rather strangely vehement protest. "I begged the favour——"
"As you like! The favour, then, of my opinion as your friend, as well as my view as Mr. Saffron's doctor."
Beaumaroy did not rise from his knees, but turned his face towards her; the logs had blazed up, and his eyes looked curiously bright in the glare—themselves, as it were, afire.
"In my opinion a man of sensitive honour would prefer that that will should not be made, Mr. Beaumaroy," said Mary steadily.
Beaumaroy appeared to consider. "I'm a bit posed by that point of view, Dr. Arkroyd," he said at last. "Either the old man's sane—compos mentis, don't you call it?—or he isn't. If he is——"
"I know. But I feel that way about it."