"That advice suggests brothers," he ventured. He became aware of some one standing on the balcony, gravely intent upon their figures as they climbed the shadeless road; and he saw a faint flush steal into his companion's cheeks, a tiny pucker of vexation contract her brows. "I shall have to explain you," she said. "They'll never let me take Bruno out again." "Not take out your dog!" he exclaimed. "Oh, he isn't mine. He belongs to the house. I have never owned anything so valuable as a dog." She laughed again, entirely without bitterness, and added: "The advantage of possessing nothing lies in the knowledge that one can never suffer the disappointment of loss." He wondered whether she guessed that he was suffering keenly from the particular disappointment of which she spoke, whether, when those clear eyes had fastened upon his in the surprise of that first encounter, she had discerned the breathless, almost feverish, anxiety with which he hung on the issue of the game. He felt that she would not sympathise with him if he confessed to her that he had lost his all, that he could boast no greater possessions than herself. He recalled the disapproval in her look; and he felt that in no circumstance could he be drawn to confide in her that for over a week he had been steadily gambling, and, for the greater part of the time, losing heavily. She simply would not understand. "It is an advantage truly," he allowed--"so long as one is sure of one's next meal. I enjoy that enviable condition with yourself." "Yes. But you won't enjoy it for long." "You mean?" he asked. "You'll acquire... Men can." "And can't women too?" "It's possible, of course; but it isn't so easy for us; we're up against so many obstacles--tradition is the biggest of them." "Some of you have climbed over that," he said. "Some of us have." She lifted her face with a brief smile. "When we've climbed over in sufficient numbers we'll roll it out of the way. Don't come with me any farther, please; Mrs Graham won't like it. That is Mrs Graham on the balcony. I am her companion." "Oh!" he said. He opened the gate for her and stood with his hand upon it. Because of the watchful figure on the balcony he made no offer to shake hands; the girl, he believed, would prefer that her employer should not witness how far they had advanced towards a friendly intimacy. "I hope the leg will soon be well," he said. "I am often on the beach; I'm on holiday. Perhaps I shall have the pleasure of meeting you again, and hearing from you of its progress. I'm staying in town. Matheson is my name--Guy Matheson." "Mine is Brenda Upton," she returned with a sort of shy bluntness that seemed to hint at unwillingness to respond to his insistent confidences. He was gaining information by insidious methods. In a few minutes he had learnt more about her than is sometimes revealed after a long acquaintance. She resented this. It conferred privileges to which he was entitled.