Mary hastily shook her head, and the effort to recover her self-control—for she felt herself on the point of bursting into tears—brought back the colour to her cheeks.
“I will go now,” she said, turning towards the door.
Mr Cheviott interrupted her.
“Will you not allow me to say one word of regret for the pain I have caused you?” he said, anxiously, humbly almost, “will you not allow me to say how deeply I admire and—and respect your courage and sisterly devotion?”
Mary shook her head.
“No,” she said. “I could not believe you if you said anything of the kind, knowing you now as I do. And I earnestly hope I may never see you and never speak to you again.”
The words were childish, but the tone and manner gave them force, and their force went home. Mr Cheviott winced visibly. Yet once again he spoke.
“You may resent my saying so at present,” he said, “but afterwards you may be glad to recall my assurance that no one shall ever hear from me one word of what has been said just now.”
Mary turned upon him with ineffable contempt.
“I dare say not,” she said. “For your own sake you will do well to keep silence. For mine you may tell it where and to whom you choose.”