Then he shook hands with the Major, and bade Isabel, George, and Fanny a cheerful good-night--a collective farewell cordially addressed to all three of them together--and left them at the table.
Isabel turned wondering, hurt eyes upon her son.

"George, dear!" she said.

"What did you mean ?" "Just what I said," he returned, lighting one of the Major's cigars, and his manner was imperturbable enough to warrant the definition (sometimes merited by imperturbability) of stubbornness.
Isabel's hand, pale and slender, upon the tablecloth, touched one of the fine silver candlesticks aimlessly: the fingers were seen to tremble.
"Oh, he was hurt!" she murmured.
"I don't see why he should be," George said.

"I didn't say anything about him.

He didn't seem to me to be hurt--seemed perfectly cheerful.
What made you think he was hurt ?" "I know him!" was all of her reply, half whispered.
The Major stared hard at George from under his white eyebrows.