His face darkened. "I'll pass over the first part of that until later. But why call him a 'genius'?"
"He has written a story," breathlessly, "oh, all the world will know it soon. The people who have read it, in New York, are crazy about it——"
"Is that all? A story? So many people write nowadays."
"Well," she asked quietly, "what more have you to offer?"
"Love, Becky. You intimated a moment ago that I was not—a gentleman—because I failed—once. Is that fair? How do you know that Paine has not failed—how do you know——? And love hasn't anything to do with genius, Becky, it has to do with that night in the music-room, when you sang and when I—kissed you. It has to do with nights like those in the old garden, with the new moon and the stars, and the old goddesses."
"And with words which meant—nothing——"
"_Becky_," he protested.
"Yes," she said, "you know it is true—they meant nothing. Perhaps you have changed since then. I don't know. But I know this, that I have changed."
He felt back of her words the force which had always baffled him.