“I don't want you to marry Shoesmith,” I said at last.
“Don't you like him?”
“Not as your husband.”
“He's a very clever and sturdy person—and very generous and devoted to me.”
“And me?”
“You can't expect that. He thinks you are wonderful—and, naturally, that you ought not to have started this.”
“I've a curious dislike to any one thinking that but myself. I'm quite ready to think it myself.”
“He'd let us be friends—and meet.”
“Let us be friends!” I cried, after a long pause. “You and me!”
“He wants me to be engaged soon. Then, he says, he can go round fighting these rumours, defending us both—and force a quarrel on the Baileys.”