“Of M. Max?”

“But yes, monsieur!” Her hands, her whole body expressed apology and eager explanation.  “M.  Max has been called away—­upon a business of much importance.  M. Max desires his profoundest, his most affectionate excuses—­and will monsieur place him under a debt never possible of repayment by entering the appartement—­by entertaining the princess during his absence?”

Blake stared “In the name of Heaven—­”

But Jacqueline’s white hands again made free with his arm.

“Monsieur, Heaven will arrange!  Heaven is bountiful in these affairs!”

“But I don’t understand.  He has gone upon business, you say?  He never had any business.”

Jacqueline laughed and clapped her hands.  “Do not be too sure, monsieur!  He is growing up, is M. Max!” She gave another little twittering laugh of sheer delight.

“Come, monsieur!  The princess is alone.  It is not gallant to keep a lady waiting!”

“But you don’t understand, Jacqueline.  It is impossible—­impossible that I should intrude—­”

“It is no intrusion, monsieur!  I have explained everything to madame—­and she expects you!” She flitted past him to the door, threw it open and dropped him a pretty, impertinent curtsy.

“Now, monsieur!” she commanded; and Blake, half amused, half resentful, saw nothing for it but to obey.

He stepped across the threshold; he heard Jacqueline laugh again softly and close the door; then he stood, a prey to profound trepidation.

He stood for a moment, hesitating between flight and advance, then shame at his weakness forced him to go forward and open the salon door.

As he opened it, another change took place within him; his diffidence forsook him, his excitement was allayed as, by a restraining hand, he was dominated by a peculiar clarity of vision.

This accentuated keenness of observation came into action even in a material sense; as he passed into the familiar room, each object appealed to him in its appointed place—­in its just and proper value.  The quaint odd articles of furniture that he and Max had chosen in company!  The pictures that he had hung upon the white walls at Max’s bidding!  The Russian samovar, the books, the open cigarette-box, each of which spoke and breathed of Max!

Every object came to him clearly in the quiet light of the lamp upon the bureau; it seemed like the setting of a play, where the atmosphere had been carefully created, the details definitely woven into a perfect chain.

He stood, looking upon the silent room, wondering what would happen—­convinced that something must happen; and at last, with the same quietness—­the same intense naturalness, perfect as extreme art—­a slight sound came from the balcony and a woman stepped into the subdued light.

She stepped into the quiet lamplight and paused; and Blake’s first subconscious feeling was that, miraculously, the empty room had taken on life and meaning—­that this sudden, gracious presence filled and possessed it absolutely and by right divine.