"He only reminded me of how much you and he used to talk together, and told me that the subject of your conversation was generally Thurber. Then he pointed out a thousand little things which happened in Petersburg, to prove that you cared more for Thurber in the beginning than you imagined."
"What did you say to all this?" I exclaimed, as calmly as possible.
"I listened."
"And then?"
"And then," replied George, a faint flush creeping over his face, "I told him that I did not care to discuss Miss Romilly's likes and dislikes with him."
"And he?"
"He smiled, and changed the subject."
"He is a miserable coward!" said I vehemently. "I hope you will never believe anything he tells you about me."
"Sacha is very much like other men. The greatest fault which he has is a fondness for hearing himself talk."
I restrained myself by a violent effort, and said no more about Sacha; but I must confess I did not understand George, and I do not understand him now. Only a week or two ago, he was encouraging me to be faithful to Chilton Thurber, and never hinted at the possibility of my caring for him. Now, he is angry because he thinks I have been in love with Mr. Thurber all the time. How inconsistent men are!
Tom drew near, and put an end to our conversation:
