at it says."

"Possibly, monsieur! but you admit that--that you are scarcely aged."
There was a quiver now about the pretty lips, a hint of a laugh in the
eyes.

"Mademoiselle,"--he wheeled round with unexpected vehemence,--"I should
like you, to tell me exactly how old you think I am."

"You mean it, monsieur?"

"I mean it. Is it seventeen--or is it sixteen?" His voice was edged with
irony.

"It is neither, monsieur!" Jacqueline was very demure now, her eyes
sought the floor. "Granted your full permission, monsieur, I would
say--"

"You would say--?"

"I would say"--she flashed a daring look at him and instantly dropped
her eyes again--"I would say that you have twenty-four, if not
twenty-five years!"

The confession came in a little rush of speech, and as it left her lips
she moved toward the door, contemplating flight.

An immense surprise clouded Max's mind, a surprise that brought the
blood mantling to his face and sent his words forth with a stammering
indecision.

"Twenty-four--twenty-five! What gave you that idea?"

"Oh, monsieur, it is simple! It came to me by observation!"

Leaving Max still red, still confused, she slipped out of the room
noiselessly as she had come, and as the door closed he heard the faint,
exasperating sound of a light little laugh.

CHAPTER XVI

After Jacqueline had closed the door and the light laugh had died into
silence, Max stood before his easel, hands inert, the flush still
scorching his face. For the first time since the birth of the new life
he had been made sensible of personal criticism--the criticism winged
with fine ridicule, that leaves its victim strangely uncertain,
curiously uneasy. The immemorial subtlety of woman had lurked in the
girl's eyes as she cast her last penetrating glance at him. He felt now,
as he stood alone, that his soul had been stripped and was naked to the
bare walls and gaping canvas, and his start was one of purely unbalanced
nerves when a knock fell upon the door, telling of a new intruder.

He had all but cried out in protest when the door opened, but at sight
of the invader the cry merged into an unstrung laugh of welcome.

"Ned! You?"

Blake walked into the room, talking as he came. "Well, upon my word!
Wasn't I right? Here he is, easel and canvas and all--even the temper
isn't wanting!"

Max ran forward, caught and clung to his arm.

"_Mon ami_! _Mon cher_! I have wanted you--wanted you."

"Anything wrong?"

"