“Claims, man!” retorted Ransford. “You've got no claims! What are you talking about? Claims!”
“My pretensions, then,” answered Bryce. “If there is a mystery—as Wrychester people say there is—about Miss Bewery, it would be safe with me. Whatever you may think, I'm a thoroughly dependable man—when it's in my own interest.”
“And—when it isn't?” asked Ransford. “What are you then?—as you're so candid.”
“I could be a very bad enemy,” replied Bryce.
There was a moment's silence, during which the two men looked attentively at each other.
“I've told you the truth,” said Ransford at last. “Miss Bewery flatly refuses to entertain any idea whatever of ever marrying you. She earnestly hopes that that eventuality may never be mentioned to her again. Will you give me your word of honour to respect her wishes?”
“No!” answered Bryce. “I won't!”
“Why not?” asked Ransford, with a faint show of anger. “A woman's wishes!”
“Because I may consider that I see signs of a changed mind in her,” said Bryce. “That's why.”
“You'll never see any change of mind,” declared Ransford. “That's certain. Is that your fixed determination?”