egretfully. "It's no use. I daren't
trust you," he said.

Mary laughed again, this time in amazed resentment of his impudence. "You
can't trust me! I think it's the other way round. It seems to me that the
boot's on the other leg."

"Not as I see it." Then he smiled slowly, as it were tentatively. "Or
would you--I wonder if you could--possibly--well, stand in with me?"

"Are you offering me a--a partnership?" she asked indignantly.

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."

"You imputed your own standards to me. That's all there is about it, I
suppose," she said in a scornful sadness. He looked very miserable.
Compassion, and the old odd attraction which he had for her, stirred in
her mind. Her voice grew soft, and she held out her hand. "I'm sorry too,
very sorry, that it should have to be good-bye between us."

Beaumaroy did not take her proffered hand, or even seem to notice it. He
stood quite still.

"I'm damned if I know what I'm to do now!"

Close on the heels of his despairing confession of helplessn