inchingly upon her listener, she was wont to have
her questions answered. Jacqueline recognized the moment, saw Maxine in
all her proud foolishness, loved her with that swift intermingling of
pity and worship that such beings as she inevitably call forth, finally
tossed her little head in her most tantalizing manner and laughed.

"With madame's permission," she said, "I will wish her good-night!"

"The permission is not granted."

"Nevertheless, madame!" Her hand was on the door.

"Wait!" cried Maxine, peremptorily. "I have asked you a question and you
must answer it."

Jacqueline stopped half-way through the doorway, and looked back, her
flower-like face alight with mischief.

"Pardon, madame! 'Must' is the word for the ruler. Lucien says 'must' to
me; M. Blake says 'must' to"--she paused, with maddening precision; she
dropped a little impertinent curtsy--"to M. Max!"

She tossed the word upon the air, as a child might blow thistle-down;
she laughed and was gone, leaving Maxine conscious of a strange new
sensation that whipped her to anger and yet, most curiously, left her
bereft of words.

CHAPTER XXXI

Nothing less than absolute conviction can shake a strong nature. A wave
of doubt swept over Maxine as her little neighbor's words died out and
the door closed, leaving her to silence and solitude; but for all her
folly, she was strong, and strength such as hers is not shaken by the
shaft of a Jacqueline, however cunningly sped.

She sat for long, troubled, perplexed--almost, it might have seemed,
fearful of herself--- but gradually the strength asserted itself, the
fine, blind faith within her asserted itself in a wave of reaction.

Some small weakness had been hers, she admitted--some small shrinking
from the truth of things! She had been remiss in the application of her
test, allowing the dream to oust the reality in that fascinating hour
with Blake. Remiss, but no more!

At this stage in her meditations, she returned to the balcony, studying
the sky anew--drinking in confidence from the glory of the stars, the
slight grace of the crescent moon.

She became the boy again in mind and heart, enthusiastic, assured,
thirsting for action; she looked down upon Paris frankly and without
defiance--or so she deemed; and the old, wild suggestions of 'liberty,
equality, brotherhood,' seemed to rise, ghostly, from its stones.

Enthusiasm is ever a gracious, pardonable thing, because in its
essentials are