"I know him too well to ever be disillusioned," she said.
"Love, they say, is blind," he ventured.
"I know his faults as I do mine," she said slowly, "and love him for them. You see, we've known each other since we were children."
He could not reply. The awfulness of the truth dumbed him and an impetuous desire to protect her swept through him. But he was powerless, helpless. A wild idea of sacrificing his loyalty to his paper by warning Gibson of the impending exposure of his perfidy so that he might renounce "Gink" Cummings and be worthy of Consuello's love flashed in and out of his brain.
His silence seemed to mystify her. When she spoke it was as though she might have a vague premonition of his confused thoughts.
"But there's no need for my having an apprehension that he will blunder, is there?" she asked.
"We all make mistakes," he said, conscientiously trying to assure her. He realized, however, that his answer sounded evasive and fearful of further questioning he added, hastily, "His election is conceded by everyone."
They rose from the table. To "Mother" Graham, perched on a stool behind a cash register near the door, he paid for their dinner and they stepped out into the street. Night had descended quickly. The cool, refreshing breeze from the ocean that tempers the warmth of the day was coming in gently, caressingly, soothingly from the west, and worries fled away with it like dead leaves whisked from the trees.
During the pre-view, which lasted an hour and a half, John had but few chances to converse with Consuello. She was busy with Bonwit, the director, and a half dozen others whom John decided were the technicians whose business it was to revise the film before it was released. They sat grouped in a semi-circle and several times certain scenes were flashed on the screen repeatedly for closer observation.