from a leather arm-chair.

Max laughed a little.

"But, _mon cher_, I prefer the ground--this nice warm little corner
close to the fire. One day I think I shall have two cushions, like your
Bluebeard of the curio shop, and sit all day long with my legs crossed,
imagining myself a Turk. Like this!" He drew back against the wall,
curling himself up with supple agility, and smiled into his companion's
eyes.

Blake looked down, half amused, half concerned.

"Poor little _gamin_! Tired and dirty and hungry. Just you wait!"
Nodding decisively, he crossed the room, opened the door softly, and
disappeared.

Left to himself, Max drew farther back into his warm corner and clasped
his hands about his knees. Max was enjoying himself. The fact was patent
in the lazy ease of his pose, in the smile that hovered about his lips,
in the slow, pleased glance that travelled round and round the bare room
and the furniture still standing ghostly in its packing. It was still
the joyful beginning of things: the clean white paper upon the walls
spoke of first hours as audibly as the bunch of jonquils peeping from a
dark corner spoke of spring. It was still the beginning of things--the
salt before the sweet, the ineffable, priceless moment when life seems
malleable and to be bent to the heart's desire.

One month had passed since his first visit to this fifth floor; one
month since he had entered Paris, armored in his hopes; one month since
Blake had crossed his path.

The smile upon his lips deepened, then wavered to seriousness, and his
gaze turned from the white wall to the fire, where the flames from the
logs spurted copper and blue.

One month. A dream--or a lifetime?

Gazing into the fire, questioning his own fancy, he could scarce decide
which; a dream in the quick moving of events--the swift viewing of new
scenes; a lifetime in alteration of outlook and environment--the
severing and knitting of bonds.

The happy seriousness was still enfolding him, his eyes were still
intent upon the fire, when Blake entered, triumphant, carrying a
coffee-pot, and followed by a demure girl with blonde hair and delicate
pale skin.

"Monsieur is served!"

Max, startled out of his reverie, jumped to his feet.

"What is this? Oh, but you should not! You should not!"

"And why not, in the name of God? If you insist upon having antique
brass coffee-pots, your neighbors must expect to suffer, eh,
Jacqueline?"

The little Jacqueline laughed