'No, only—it's rather funny—when I went to the Agora that night I fancied I saw her face, but it must have been fancy.'
'Of course; unless,' added the other, goaded by the Imp of the Perverse—'unless her lover was a gentleman interested in social reform.'
'Not he,' said Roland contemptuously; 'more likely some fool of a counter-jumper or clerk. You know I looked upon her quite as my sister, and I was very fond of her, and all that.'
'Yes?' interrogatively.
Roland had not meant to say anything more; but after that 'yes' he found himself going on,—
'And that's why it's so deuced hard that my brother should blame me for it. Upon my soul, I seem fated to be blamed by everybody I know for everything any one else has done!'
'That, then, was your brother's accusation?'
'Yes. At least if it wasn't I can make neither head nor tail of anything he said. But I didn't mean to have said anything about it—it's too preposterous! I don't know how it is, but I'm always finding myself telling you things that I didn't mean to tell any one. I wonder how it is? Natural affinity, I suppose.'
'I suppose it's because you know I am interested in you,' said Litvinoff cordially, as they turned in at the gate of Thornsett Edge.