Gaston grinned:
“Mon Dieu!” said he, “he has not even an Englishman’s excuse for existence—he is not even rich.”
The two women had arisen, scowling at each other’s handsome faces, their beautiful lips set angrily, and began to quarrel about the seated Doome, who thrust his hands into his pockets resignedly, and sat grimly silent through it all.
Words were like to come to blows between the two women, for the hot-blooded Liane, to reach the other, moved out to battle—the other retired slowly up the café, her reckless rallies as she withdrew bringing all eyes to the disturbance.
Women stood up on chairs and tables, to see the details; and the students thundered applause, and threw in comic suggestions.
“The last word is with Liane,” shouted a great burly fellow with a big laughing voice, an artist; and added: “Tiens! what a Juno, hein!”
Liane turned her pretty back upon them, and the wit ran down.
She came back to her seat beside Doome; sat down; and laid a hand upon his sleeve:
“It was thy fault,” she said.
Doome looked at her grimly: