was fervent as it was reckless, and Jacqueline stood aghast.
The entire denial of love was comprehensible to her, if inexplicable;
but her mind refused this problem of realization and rejection.

"Madame--" she began, quickly, but she paused on the word, listening;
the sound of Max's door opening and closing came distinctly to the ear,
followed by a footstep descending the stairs. "Monsieur Edouard!" she
whispered, finger on lip.

Maxine, also, had heard, and a look of relief broke the tension of her
expression.

"He is gone. That is well!"

Something in her look, in her voice startled Jacqueline anew.

"Why do you speak like that, madame? Why do you look so cold?"

"I am sane again, Jacqueline."

"And Monsieur Edouard? Is he sane, I wonder? Is he cold? Oh, madame, he
loves you!"

"I am going to prove his love."

"But, madame! Oh, madame, love isn't a matter of proving; it is an
affair of giving--giving--giving with all the heart."

"Trust me, Jacqueline! I understand. Good-night!"

Jacqueline framed no word, but her eyes spoke many things.

"Say good-night, Jacqueline! Forget that you have entertained a mad
woman!"

"Good-night, madame!"

But the little Jacqueline, left alone, shook her head many times,
leaving her heap of blue muslin neglected upon the floor.

"Poor child!" she said softly to herself. "Poor child! Poor child!"

CHAPTER XXXIV

It was midway between the hours of nine and ten on the morning
following. Max was standing in the studio; the easel, still bearing the
portrait, had been pushed into a corner, its face to the wall;
everywhere the warm sun fell upon a rigid severity of aspect, as though
the room had instinctively been bared for the enacting of some scene.

Max himself, in a subtle manner, struck the same note. The old painting
blouse he usually wore had been discarded for the blue serge suit,
severely masculine in aspect; his hair had been reduced to an usual
order, his whole appearance was rigid, active, braced for the coming
moment.

And this moment arrived sooner even than anticipation had suggested. The
clocks of Paris had barely clashed the half hour, when his strained ears
caught a step upon the landing, a sharp knock upon the door, and before
his brain could leap to fear or joy, Blake was in the _appartement_--in
the room.

There was no mistaking Blake's attitude as he swung into the boy's
presence; it was patent in every movement, every glance, even had hi