selle!"

It was over--the little encounter; she moved into the dark hallway as
light, as joyous, as inconsequent as a bird. And Max passed out into the
sharp, crisp air, sensible that the troubling memories of the Bal
Tarbarin had in some strange manner been effaced--that inadvertently he
had touched some source whence the waters of life bubbled in eternal,
crystal freshness.

In the rue Ronsard he found a disengaged cab, and in ten minutes he was
wheeling down into the heart of Paris. It was nearing the hour of
_dejeuner_, the boulevards were already filling, and the cold, crisp air
seemed to vibrate to the bustle of hurrying human creatures seriously
absorbed in the thought of food.

He smiled to himself at this humorously grave homage offered up so
untiringly, so zealously to the appetite, as he made his way between the
long line of tables at the restaurant where he had appointed to meet
Blake. Like all else that appertains to the Frenchman, its very
frankness disarmed criticism or disgust. He looked at the beaming faces,
smiling up from the wide-spread napkins in perfect accord with life, and
again, involuntarily, he smiled. It was essentially a good world,
whatever the pessimists might say!

From a side-table he heard his name called, and with an added glow of
pleasure, he turned, saw Blake, and made his way through the closely
ranged chairs and the throng of hurrying waiters.

"Well, boy! Dissipation suits you, it seems! You're looking well. Just
out of bed, I suppose?"

Max laughed. Words were brimming to his lips, until he knew not how to
speak.

"And now, what 'll you eat? I waited to order until you came."

"I do not know that I can eat."

"God bless my soul, why not? Sit down!"

Max laughed again, dropped obediently into a chair, rested his arms on
the table, and looked full at Blake.

"May I speak?"

"From now till Doomsday! _Garcon_!"

But Max laid an impulsive hand upon his arm.

"Wait! Do not order for one moment! I must tell you!" He gave a little
gasp of excitement. "I have seen an _appartement_ in the rue Mueller--an
_appartement_ with a charming _salon_ opening upon a balcony, a nice
little bedroom, another room with an excellent painting light, a kitchen
with water and gas, all--all for what do you imagine?"

"What in God's name are you raving about?" Blake laid down the _menu_
just handed to him.

Max paid not the slightest heed.

"All for two hundred and sixty francs the year