“Now call me a fool, Liane,” said he grimly.
The tears came to her eyes.
Gaston Latour went and sat down beside her, touched her hand:
“Hist!” said he—“Liane, you must not contradict him. It is the privilege of genius to utter the truth.”
She turned to him, the tears in her eyes giving way to sad laughter. Latour, with mock absent-mindedness, kissed her:
“Oh, pardon—I forgot,” said he; and so led back the laughter.
Doome smiled:
“You must forgive Gaston, Liane,” he said. “He forgets everything—he even forgets himself.”
The girl leaned on Doome’s shoulder, turned to Latour:
“He says I am to forgive you, Gaston,” said she. “I love him.”