able. I will delay but
four--three--two minutes in the making of myself clean."

"But the table is complete--"

"It is incomplete, _mon ami_; it is without flowers."

Before Blake's objections could form into new words, he found himself
in the little hallway with the bedroom door closed upon him, and, being
a philosopher, he shook his head contentedly and walked back into the
_salon_, where he obediently brought to light the bowl of jonquils that
was still perfuming the air from its dark corner, and set it carefully
between the wine and the fruit.

Ten minutes and more slipped by, during which, still philosophical, he
walked slowly round and round the table, straightening a candle here,
altering a dish there, humming all the while in a not unmusical voice
the song from _Louise_.

He was dwelling fondly upon the line

"Depuis le jour ou je me suis donnee"--

when the door of the bedroom was flung open as by a gale, and at the
door of the _salon_ appeared Max--his dark hair falling over his
forehead, a comb in one hand, a brush in the other.

"_Mon cher!_ a hundred--a thousand apologies for being so long! It is
all the fault of my hair!"

Blake looked at him across the candles. "Indeed I wouldn't bother about
my hair, if I were you! A century of brushing wouldn't make it
respectable."

"Why not?"

"Look at the length of it!"

"Ah, but that pleases me!"

Blake shook his head in mock seriousness. "These artists! These
artists!" he murmured to himself.

Max laughed, threw the comb and brush from him into some unseen corner
of the hall, and ran across the _salon_.

"You are very ill-mannered! I shall box your ears!"

Blake threw himself into an attitude of defence. "I'd ask nothing
better!" he cried. "Come on! Just come on!"

Max, laughing and excited, took a step forward, then paused as at some
arresting thought.

"Afraid? Oh, _la, la_! Afraid?"

"Afraid!" The boy tossed the word back scornfully, but his face flushed
and he made no advance.

"You'll have to, now, you know!"

Max retreated.

"Oh, no, you don't!" With a quick, gay laugh, touched with the fire of
battle, Blake followed; but ere he could come to close quarters, the boy
had dodged and, lithe and swift as a cat, was round the table.

"No! No!" he cried, with a little gasp, a little sob of excitement that
caught the breath. "No! No! I demand grace. A starving man, _mon ami_! A
starving man! It is not fair."

He knew his advers