“Twice,” she answered. “I didn't like to tell you—I've hated to bother you about it. But—what am I to do? I dislike him intensely—I can't tell why, but it's there, and nothing could ever alter the feeling. And though I told him—before—that it was useless—he mentioned it again—yesterday—at Mrs. Folliot's garden-party.”
“Confound his impudence!” growled Ransford. “Oh, well!—I'll have to settle with him myself. It's useless trifling with anything like that. I gave him a quiet hint before. And since he won't take it—all right!”
“But—what shall you do?” she asked anxiously. “Not—send him away?”
“If he's any decency about him, he'll go—after what I say to him,” answered Ransford. “Don't you trouble yourself about it—I'm not at all keen about him. He's a clever enough fellow, and a good assistant, but I don't like him, personally—never did.”
“I don't want to think that anything that I say should lose him his situation—or whatever you call it,” she remarked slowly. “That would seem—”
“No need to bother,” interrupted Ransford. “He'll get another in two minutes—so to speak. Anyway, we can't have this going on. The fellow must be an ass! When I was young—”
He stopped short at that, and turning away, looked out across the garden as if some recollection had suddenly struck him.
“When you were young—which is, of course, such an awfully long time since!” said the girl, a little teasingly. “What?”
“Only that if a woman said No—unmistakably—once, a man took it as final,” replied Ransford. “At least—so I was always given to believe. Nowadays—”
“You forget that Mr. Pemberton Bryce is what most people would call a very pushing young man,” said Mary. “If he doesn't get what he wants in this world, it won't be for not asking for it. But—if you must speak to him—and I really think you must!—will you tell him that he is not going to get—me? Perhaps he'll take it finally from you—as my guardian.”