"There is nothing more I can do."
"You have thought of the consequences. You have considered my influence, the power I have to save or to kill you?"
"No, I haven't thought much of that. It doesn't seem to matter."
"You laugh at me."
"That is unworthy of you," Barrington answered. "We are two men in a tight place, and such men do not laugh at each other. Once you said that, should we prove to be enemies, it might help us to remember that we had clasped hands over our wine. Well, is not this the hour to remember it?"
"One has to forget many things," said Latour.
"True; and we come to a point when we understand how trivial are many of these things we thought most important," said Barrington. "We are at the mercy of the world's storms, and we shall surely travel ways we never set out to travel. I came to France, Latour, burning to fight for an oppressed people, burning to do something in this land like the Marquis de Lafayette had done in America. His career there fired my youthful ambition. I have done nothing. I come to this hour, facing you across this little table—two men, enemies, yet for all that liking each other a little, kindred somehow, and strangely bound together in that we both love the same woman."
Latour was silent for a few moments, the past, the present, and the future, mingled in his brain in strange confusion.
"Would you see her again?" he asked suddenly.
Barrington did not answer at once. "Let her decide," he said slowly. "There would be heaven in such a meeting, but there would be hell, too."