The scene bore a perfect similarity to the scene of the first meeting—­about them, the darkness and the quiet—­behind them, the little salon lit by the familiar lamp, showing all the reassuring evidences of the boy’s occupation.  For close upon an hour they had enjoyed this intimacy of the balcony, at first talking much and rapidly upon the ostensible object of their meeting—­Max’s quarrel with Blake, later falling to a happy silence, as though they deliberately closed their lips, the more fully to drink in the secrets of the night through eyes and ears.  Strange spells were in the weaving, and no two souls are fused to harmony without much subtle questioning of spirit, many delicate, tremulous speculations compounded of wordless joy and wordless fear.

Some issue, it was, in this matter of fusing personalities, that at last caused Maxine to turn her head and find Blake studying her.

The circumstance was trivial—­a mere crossing of glances, but it brought the color to her face as swiftly as if she had been taken in some guilty act.

Blake saw the expression, and interpreted it wrongly.

“You are displeased, princess?  I am a bad companion to-night?” He spoke impulsively, with an anxiety in his voice that spurred her to a desire to comfort him.

“When people are sympathetic, monsieur, they are companions, whether good or bad.  Is it not so?”

He moved a little nearer to her; neither was aware of the movement.

“Do you find me sympathetic?”

“Indeed, yes!” Her luminous glance rested on him thoughtfully.

“But you scarcely know me.”

“Monsieur, I do know you.”

“Through the boy, perhaps—­” He spoke with a touch of impatience, but she stopped him with upraised hand.

“You are angry with Max, therefore you must be silent!  Anger does not make for true judgment.”

“Ah, that’s unfair!” He laughed. “’Tis Max who is angry with me!  You know I came here to-night with open arms—­to find him flown!  Still, I am willing to keep them open, and give the kiss of peace whenever he relents—­to please you.”

“Ah, no, monsieur!  To please him.  To please him.”

“Indeed, no!  To please you—­and no one else.  If I followed my own devices, I’d wait till he comes back, and box his ears.  He’d very well deserve it.”

Maxine laughed; then, swift as a breeze or a racing cloud, her mood changed.

“Monsieur, you care for Max?”

“What a question!  I love Max.  He’s a star in my darkness—­or was, until the sun shone.”

He paused, fearful of where his impulses had led him; but Maxine was all sweetness, all seriousness.

“Am I, then, the sun, monsieur?”

In any other woman the words must have seemed a lure; but here was a fairness, a frankness and dignity that lifted the question to another and higher plane.  Blake, comprehending, answered simply with the truth.