But that was only for a minute, and I would
never be foolish again. Trust me for that.
"She has married Weston," I said. "Well, the little flirt!"
Tim got down on the hearth and began piling paper and kindling and logs
in the fireplace. He started the blaze, and when it was going cheerily
he looked up to find me in my old chair by the table, with Captain
beside me, his head on my knee as I stroked it.
"The little flirt!" I said again, bound that he should hear me.
He heard. He took his old chair, and resting his elbows on the table,
resting his chin in his hands, a favorite attitude of his, he sat there
eying me quietly.
"The little what, Mark?" he said at last.
"Flirt," I snapped.
It was simply a braggart's way. I knew it. Tim knew it, too. He
seemed to look right through me. I was angry with him, I was jealous
of him, because she had cared for him. I knew she had. I knew why she
had. Tim and I were far apart. But he had made the breach. All the
wrong wrought was his, and yet he sat there, calmly eying me, as though
he were a righteous judge and I the culprit.
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