“Ravishing!” Maxine laughed once more.  “Jacqueline, I am something more than that!  I am happy!” She threw out her arms, as if to embrace the universe.  “I am happier than the saints in heaven!  I am living in the moment, and the moment is perfection!  I care nothing that yesterday I wept, that to-morrow I may weep again.  I am alive and I am happy.  I feel as I used to feel at fifteen years old, galloping a spirited horse.  The whole world is sublime—­from the dust in the streets to the stars in the sky!” She forgot her companion, her speech broke off, she turned and began to pace the room with head thrown back, hands clasped behind her with careless, boyish ease.

For a while Jacqueline watched her, diligently sifting out every emotional sign; then, deeming that some moment of her own choosing had arrived, she slipped unobserved from the room, to return a minute later bearing a kettle full of boiling water.

Maxine looked round as she made her entry.

“A kettle, Jacqueline?”

“For madame’s tea.  And, my God, but it is hot!” She set it down hastily in the fireplace, and sucked her finger with a pouting smile.

Maxine smiled, too, coming back from her dream with vague graciousness. 
“But I do not need tea.”

Jacqueline did not refute the statement, but merely began to manipulate the samovar in the manner learned of Max, while Maxine, yielding to her own delicious exaltation, fell again to her long, slow pacing of the floor.

Presently the inviting smell of tea began to pervade the room, and Jacqueline set out a cup and saucer—­Max’s first purchase from old Bluebeard of the curios.

“Madame is served!” She stood behind the chair ordained for Maxine, very sedate, very assured of her own arrangements.

Maxine paused, as though the suggestion of tea was brought to her for the first time.

“How delightful!” she said, with swift, serene pleasure.  “How kind!  How thoughtful!”

“Seat yourself, madame!”

The chair was drawn forward; the just and proper thrill of preparation was conveyed by Jacqueline; and Maxine seated herself, still in her smiling dream.

Half the cup of tea was consumed under Jacqueline’s watchful eye, then she stole round the chair.

“Madame, a cigarette?” Her fingers crept to the cigarette-box, then found and struck a match, all with a deft, unobtrusive quiet that won its way undenied.

The cigarette was lighted, Maxine leaned back in her chair, Jacqueline’s confidential moment was secured.

“And so, madame, it was a grand success?”

Maxine looked up.  The first fine ecstasy was past; the after-glow of deep contentment curled round her with the cigarette smoke; she was the pliant reed to the soft wind of Jacqueline’s whispering.

“It was past belief,” she answered, “past all belief.  We stood together in the light of the lamp and looked each other in the eyes, and he never guessed.  He never guessed—­he, who has—­Oh, it was past belief!”