“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.” She took Doome’s hand in her lap, and stroked his fingers between her gloved hands. “I love the English,” she said. Gaston looked shocked: “Oh no--not so many as that!” said he, “it isn’t proper....” As Betty, led by a waiter, and followed by Moll Davenant and Noll and the Five Foolish Virgins, peering at the light, entered the flare of the café, looking for places, unable to find seats under the awning outside, she heard her name called, and, looking round upon the merry crowd, she saw Babette signing to her to go to their table. But Noll had been recognised, and there were loud shouts for him about the café, and hands held out. His genial ways, his frank habits, his kindly tact, had early won the hearts of the rollicking student crew, and he had soon passed from “Monsieur” to surname, from surname to Christian name, translated to heathen barbarianisms, to Noll, mon vieux, old man.... Dick Davenant and the other Foolish Virgins came in for a like ovation from “the boys.” And it was with some difficulty that they managed to struggle through the genial riot after Betty and join those that sat at Doome’s table. Quogge Myre and Aubrey took advantage of the chance to join the party. Babette held Betty’s hand now, and prattled happily. She pointed out to Betty’s keen eyes the many beauties present, told their histories with light touch, without malice and without exaggeration--just the simple picturesque sketch. And always the end was the same. Suzanne yonder, with the glorious hair like copper, she was the companion of that artist--he would arrive--oh, yes, the world would hear of him. Suzanne had been a model at the studios--but the hours were long--it was very fatiguing--the walls of the studio were grey and bare--she hated dull gowns--she went to the Bal Bullier--the next morning the studio was very grey--she was cross and sleepy--the students were surly--it’s so stupid to stand and be drawn--stupid and tedious and tiresome--she would go no more--at the cafés one can do as one likes--the cafés were gay--she had found a bourgeois--he was dull, but she had silk dresses instead of gowns of stuff--still, he was a bore--so she left him and came back to the cafés--the students were always gay--the café always bright----