He raised his hand in a seeming protest, and spoke now hastily and in
some confusion. "Not as you understand it. I mean, as you probably
understand it, from what I said to you that night at the Cottage. There
are features in the--well, there are things that I admit have--have
passed through my mind, without being what you'd call settled. Oh, yes,
without being in the least settled. Well, for the sake of your help
and--er--co-operation, those--those features could be dropped. And then
perhaps--if only your--your rules and etiquette--"

Mary scornfully cut short his embarrassed pleadings. "There's a good deal
more than rules and etiquette involved. It seems to me that it's a matter
of common honesty rather than of rules and etiquette--"

"Yes, but you don't understand--"

She cut him short again. "Mr. Beaumaroy, after this, after your
suggestion and all the rest of it, there must be an end of all relations
between us--professionally and, so far as possible, socially too, please.
I don't want to be self-righteous, but I feel bound to say that you have
misunderstood my character."

Her voice quivered at the end, and almost broke. She was full of a
grieved indignation.

They had come opposite the cottage now. Beaumaroy stopped, and stood
facing her. Though dusk had fallen, it was a clear evening; she could see
his face plainly; obviously he was in deep distress. "I wouldn't have
offended you for the world. I--I like you far too much, Doctor Mary."