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.

"Why did you say flirt?" he asked quietly.

"She promised to marry me," I said.

"Yes."

"She loved you, Tim."

"Yes--and how did you know it?"

"Perry Thomas saw you that night when you went to stay a minute."

The color left Tim's face and he leaned back in his chair, away from
the light into the shadow, and whistled softly.