an impression of irony!" He took the
sketch-book from Blake's hands and closed it sharply; then, to ask
pardon for his little outburst, he smiled.

"_Mon cher_! Forgive me! Come to-morrow, and we will see if day has
thrown new light."

They shook hands.

"All right--to-morrow! Good-night, boy--and good luck!"

"Good-night!"

Max stood to watch the tall figure disappear into the tangle of traffic,
then with a light step, a light heart, a light sense of propitiated
fate, he began the climb to his home.

CHAPTER XV

That night the pencil-sketch obsessed the brain of Max. Tossing wakeful
upon his bed, he saw the pageant of the future--touched the robe, all
saffron and silver, of the goddess Inspiration--and, with the brushes
and colors of imagination, gained to the gateway of fame.

It was a wild night that spurred to action, and with the coming of the
day, Blake's prophecy was fulfilled. Before the Montmartre shops were
open, he was seeking the materials of his art; and long ere the sun was
high, he was back in the room that had once been the bedroom of M.
Salas, surrounded by the disarray of the inspired moment.

The room was small but lofty, and a fine light made his work possible.
The inevitable wood fire crackled on the hearth, but otherwise the
atmosphere spoke rigidly of toil.

Zeal, endeavor, ambition in its youngest, divinest form--these were the
suggestions dormant in the strewn canvases, the tall easel, the bare
walls; and none who were to know, or who had known, Max--none destined
to kindle to the flame of his personality, ever viewed him in more
characteristic guise than he appeared on that February morning clad in
his painting smock, the lock of hair falling over his forehead, his
hands trembling with excitement, as he executed the first bold line that
meant the birth of his idea.

So remarkable, so characteristic was the pose that chance, ever with an
eye to effect, ordained it an observer, for scarcely had he lost himself
in the work than the door of his studio opened with a Bohemian lack of
ceremony, and his neighbor, Jacqueline--dressed in a blue print dress
that matched her eyes--came smiling into the room.

"Good-day, monsieur!"

He glowered with complete unreserve.

"You are displeased, monsieur; I intrude?"

"You do, mademoiselle."

The tone was uncompromising, but Jacqueline came on, softly moving
nearer and nearer to the easel, looking from the canvas to Max and back
aga