“I hear things,” said Bryce. “People will talk--even a doctor can't refuse to hear what gossiping and garrulous patients say. Since she came to you from school, a year ago, Wrychester people have been much interested in Miss Bewery, and in her brother, too. And there are a good many residents of the Close--you know their nice, inquisitive ways!--who want to know who the sister and brother really are--and what your relationship is to them!” “Confound their impudence!” growled Ransford. “By all means,” agreed Bryce. “And--for all I care--let them be confounded, too. But if you imagine that the choice and select coteries of a cathedral town, consisting mainly of the relicts of deceased deans, canons, prebendaries and the like, and of maiden aunts, elderly spinsters, and tea-table-haunting curates, are free from gossip--why, you're a singularly innocent person!” “They'd better not begin gossiping about my affairs,” said Ransford. “Otherwise--” “You can't stop them from gossiping about your affairs,” interrupted Bryce cheerfully. “Of course they gossip about your affairs; have gossiped about them; will continue to gossip about them. It's human nature!” “You've heard them?” asked Ransford, who was too vexed to keep back his curiosity. “You yourself?” “As you are aware, I am often asked out to tea,” replied Bryce, “and to garden-parties, and tennis-parties, and choice and cosy functions patronized by curates and associated with crumpets. I have heard--with these ears. I can even repeat the sort of thing I have heard. 'That dear, delightful Miss Bewery--what a charming girl! And that good-looking boy, her brother--quite a dear! Now I wonder who they really are? Wards of Dr. Ransford, of course! Really, how very romantic!--and just a little--eh?--unusual? Such a comparatively young man to have such a really charming girl as his ward! Can't be more than forty-five himself, and she's twenty--how very, very romantic! Really, one would think there ought to be a chaperon!'” “Damn!” said Ransford under his breath. “Just so,” agreed Bryce. “But--that's the sort of thing. Do you want more? I can supply an unlimited quantity in the piece if you like. But it's all according to sample.” “So--in addition to your other qualities,” remarked Ransford, “you're a gossiper?” Bryce smiled slowly and shook his head. “No,” he replied. “I'm a listener. A good one, too. But do you see my point? I say--there's no mystery about me. If Miss Bewery will honour me with her hand, she'll get a man whose antecedents will bear the strictest investigation.” “Are you inferring that hers won't?” demanded Ransford. “I'm not inferring anything,” said Bryce. “I am speaking for myself, of myself. Pressing my own claim, if you like, on you, the guardian. You might do much worse than support my claims, Dr. Ransford.” “Claims, man!” retorted Ransford. “You've got no claims! What are you talking about? Claims!”