“Their intimacy,” he went on, “is of such recent date that nothing serious can have happened, especially if one considers Lida’s character. You, of course, know what she is.”
There rose up before Novikoff the image of Lida, as he had once known and loved her; of Lida, the proud, high-spirited girl, lustrous-eyed, and crowned with serene, consummate beauty as with a radiant aureole. He shut his eyes, and put faith in Sanine’s words.
“Well, and if they really did flirt a bit, that’s over and ended now. After all, what is it to you if a girl like Lida, young and fancy-free, has had a little amusement of this sort? Without any great effort of memory I expect you could recall at least a dozen such flirtations of a far more dangerous kind, too.”
Novikoff glanced trustfully at Sanine, afraid to speak, lest the faint spark of hope within him should be extinguished. At last he stammered out:
“You know, if I …”; but he got no further. Words failed him, and tears choked his utterance.
“Well, if you what?” asked Sanine loudly, and his eyes shone. “I can but tell you this, that there is not and there never has been anything between Lida and Sarudine.”
Novikoff looked at him in amazement.
“I … well … I thought …” he began, feeling, to his dismay, that he could no longer believe what Sanine said.
“You thought a lot of nonsense!” replied Sanine sharply. “You ought to know Lida better than that. What sort of love can there be with all that hesitation and shilly-shallying?”
Novikoff, overjoyed, grasped the other’s hand.