"I heard what you said to Sanoma Tora in the cabin of the flagship," said Phao after a long silence, "and I was glad."
"I said a number of things," I reminded her; "to which do you refer?"
"You said that you loved Tavia," she replied.
"I said nothing of the kind," I rejoined rather shortly, for I almost loathed that word.
"But you did," she insisted. "You said that you loved a little slave girl and I know that you love Tavia. I have seen it in your eyes."
"You have seen nothing of the kind. Because you are in love, you think that everyone must be."
She laughed. "You love her and she loves you."
"We are only friends—very good friends," I insisted, "and furthermore I know that Tavia does not love me."
"How do you know?"
"Let us not speak of it any more," I said, but though I did not speak of it, I thought about it. I recalled that I had told Sanoma Tora that I loved a little slave girl and I knew that I had had Tavia in my mind at the time, but I thought that I had said it more to wound Sanoma Tora than for any other purpose. I tried to analyze my own feelings, but at last I gave it up as a foolish thing to do. Of course, I did not love Tavia; I loved no one; love was not for me—Sanoma Tora had killed it within my breast, and I was equally sure that Tavia did not love me; if she had, she would have shown it and I was quite sure that she had never demonstrated any other feeling for me than the finest of comradeship. We were just what she had said we were—comrades in arms, and nothing else.