“Christy, old man,” said Bertram presently, “is there anything between you and Janet—I mean in the way of love and that sort of thing?”
Christy laughed, and rose to look at himself in the glass, and laughed again.
“With this ugly mug? Does the Neanderthal Man indulge in amorous dalliance with beautiful women of the Georgian era? What a horrible thought!”
“She loves you this side idolatry,” said Bertram.
Christy suddenly flamed out in anger, and it was the first time Bertram had ever seen him lose control.
“Damn you, Pollard! Why can’t you leave that subject alone? What right have you to talk of Janet at all? She used to come here often before you spent all your evenings in her rooms.”
Bertram was astounded and overwhelmed by this sudden outburst. So Christy was jealous of him! Christy—of all men in the world!—whom he would no more hurt than cut off his own right hand!
He went over to him, and grabbed his shoulder.
“Why, you silly old ass! Do you think I wanted to barge in between you and Janet? What about Joyce, and my loyalty to her?”
Christy’s gust of rage died down as quickly as it had risen, and he was pale and ashamed.