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Rh Murdoch threw himself into the chair opposite to him.

"Go on," he said. "Say what you have to say."

Haworth bent forward a little.

"You've got on better than I'd have thought, lad," he said,—"better than I'd have thought."

"What!" hoarsely. "Does she treat me as she treats other men?"

"Nay," said Haworth, "not as she treats me—by the Lord Harry!"

The deadly bitterness which possessed him was terrible; he was livid with it.

"I've thought of a good many," he said. "I've looked on at 'em as they stood round her—chaps of her own sort, with money and the rest of it; but I never thought of you—not once."

"No," said Murdoch, "I dare say not."

"No—not once," the man repeated. "Get up, and let's take a look at you," he said. "Happen I've not had the right notion on you."

"Don't say anything you'll repent," said Murdoch. "It's bad enough as it is."

But his words were like chaff before the wind.

"You!" cried the man. "You were the chap that knew naught of women's ways. You'd scarce look one on 'em in the face. You're not the build I thought they took to."

"You told me that once before," said Murdoch, with a bitter laugh. "I've not forgotten it."

Haworth's clenched fist fell upon the table with a force which made the keys ring.

"Blast you!" he said. "You're nigher to her now than me—now!"

"Then," Murdoch answered, "you may give up."