Maxine was in high exaltation--the exaltation that makes no count of
cost. Yesterday mattered not at all; to-morrow might never dawn! As the
outer door closed upon Blake, she turned back into the lighted
_salon_--the little _salon_ of Max's books, of Max's boyish tastes--the
little _salon_ loved beyond all rooms in Paris!

In a smiling dream she passed through it, on into the studio where no
light was, save the light from a shred of crescent moon that had lately
climbed into the sky. It had a curious effect--this bare, white room
with its gaunt easel, upon which the portrait still stood, and to
superstitious eyes, it might well have suggested a ghost-chamber,
peopled by dead thoughts, dead impressions: but Maxine was in no morbid
mood, happiness ran too high--too red and warm--to permit of shadows
disputing its high place.

Smiling, smiling, she passed from the studio to the bedroom. The room
that had witnessed her first weakness; the room that had brought her
strength. How infinitely wise had been the conduct of that night! How
irrevocably fate had created doubt and dispersed it by inspiration. If
she had not twisted her hair about her head--if the little Jacqueline
had not entered at the critical moment--if, for that matter, M. Cartel
and his friend had not talked late and partaken of _bouillon_--

She laughed; she wandered round the room, touching, appraising the
little familiar trifles associated with that past hour; at last she sat
down before her mirror, and there Jacqueline found her ten minutes
later, when curiosity could no longer be withheld and she came creeping
across the landing for news of the night's doings.

Maxine heard her enter; heard her search the _salon_ and then the
studio; finally called to her.

"Jacqueline!"

"Madame!"

The door opened, and Maxine looked round, the smile still upon her lips.

"No soup for me to-night, Jacqueline? Not even tea?"

Jacqueline caught the happy lightness of the tone, and silently nodded
her blonde head as she tiptoed into the room.

"Ah, madame has had a banquet of the mind! Madame has no need of my poor
food."

Maxine picked up a comb and arranged the tendrils of hair that curled
about her temples.

"Jacqueline," she said, after a silence, "what do you consider the
highest thing?"

The question might have been astonishing, but her visitor did not betray
surprise by even the quiver of an eyelash.

"Love, madame," she said.

And Maxine did n