“It awaits you, mon ami!” He made a sweeping gesture, as though he laid the world at his friend’s feet.  And Blake, noting this, noted also with an odd little sense of gratification, that Max’s English was a trifle more halting—­a trifle more stilted for the break in their companionship.

Still arm in arm, they passed down the sloping pathway to the gate, where the children still played shrilly and the old Basque peasant still drowsed over her rosary beads.  As they passed her, Blake put his hand in his pocket and slipped a silver coin into her fingers.

“They’re so like my own people—­these Basque peasants!” he said, by way of excuse.  “They always give me a warm feeling about the heart.”

The old woman looked up surprised, and both were attracted by the picture she made against the dark holly-trees—–­ the brown withered face, the astonishingly bright eyes like the eyes of a bird, the spare, bent figure with its scrupulous cleanliness of dress.

“The blessing of the good God rest upon you, monsieur!” she said, solemnly.  “And may He provide you with your heart’s desire!”

“And for me, bonne mere?” Max broke in.  “What for me?”

The small bright eyes scanned the young face thoughtfully.  “The good God, monsieur, will take you where He means that you should go!” Her thin lips closed, and she fell again to the telling of her beads, her inner vision doubtless weaving the scenes of her youth—­the grave brown hills and sounding sea of her native country.

“For the moment it would seem that the good God points a way to the studio!” said Max, as they turned away. “Mon ami, I burn and tremble at once!  Suppose it is of no use—­my picture?” He stopped suddenly by the gate, to gaze with unpremeditated consternation at Blake; and Blake, touched by the happy familiarity of the action, laughed aloud.

“The same Max!” he cried.  “The same, same Max!  It’s like turning back to the first page of my little book.  Come along!  I have spirit for anything to-day—­even to tell you that you’ve made a failure.  Come along, boy!  It’s a great world, when all’s said and done!  Come along!  I’ll race you up the steps!”

Laughing like a couple of children, they ran up the Escalier de Sainte-Marie, smiled upon indulgently by the careless passers-by, and entering the house, the race was continued up the polished stairs.

At the door of the appartement Max came level with Blake, his face glowing with excitement, his laughter broken by quick breaths.

“Oh, Ned, no!  No!  You must not enter!  I am to go first.  I have arranged it all.  Ned, please!” He pulled Blake back and, opening the door, passed into the little hall and on into the bare, bright studio.

To Blake, following closely, the scene bore a striking resemblance to another scene—­to the occasion upon which Max had blocked in, and then destroyed, his cabaret picture—­save that now the light was no longer the silvery light of spring, but the pale gold radiance of a youthful summer.