“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 honor—”
“No, no!” he interrupted in a low but rather strangely vehement protest. “I begged the favor—”
“As you like! The favor then, of asking me to give you 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 honor 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.”
“You’d have to give evidence for me!” He raised his brows and smiled at her.