“Yes, you are the sun; and all my life I have been a sun-worshipper.”

She made no comment; she accepted the words, waiting for the flow of speech that she knew was close at hand—­the speech, probably irrelevant, certainly delightful, that he invariably poured forth at such a moment.

“Princess, do you know my country?”

She shook her head, smiling a little.

“Ah, then you don’t understand my worship!  In Ireland, nature condemns us to a long, black, wet winter and a long, gray, wet spring, so that the heart of a man is nearly drowned in his body, and he grows to believe that his country is nothing but a neutral-tinted waste; but one day, when even hope is dying, a miracle comes to pass—­the sun shines out!  The sun shines out, and he suddenly sees that his waste land is the color of emeralds and that his dripping woods are gardens, tinted like no stones that jewellers ever handle.  Oh, no wonder I am a sun-worshipper!”

Maxine, glowing to his sudden enthusiasm, clasped her hands, as when she heard the music of M. Cartel.

“Ah, and that is your country?”

“That is my country, princess.”

“I wish——­” She stopped.

“That you could see it?”

She nodded.

“And why not?  Why not—­when this boy sees reason?  How I would love to show it to you!  You would understand.”

“When would you show it to me?” She spoke very low.

“When?  Oh, perhaps in April—­April, when the washed skies are a blue that even Max could not find in his color-box, and the bare boughs tremble with promise.  In April—­or, better still, in the autumn.  In October, when the lights are cool and white and the sea is an opal; when you smell the ozone strong as violets, and at every turn of the road a cart confronts you, heaped with bronze seaweed and stuck with a couple of pikes that rise stark against the sky-line, to suggest the taking of the spoils.  Yes, in October!  In October, it should be!”

He was carried away, and she loved him for his enthusiasm.

“You care for your country?” she said, very softly.

“Yes—­in an odd way!  When wonder or joy or ambition comes to me, I always have a craving to walk those roads and watch the sea and whisper my secrets to the salt earth, but I never gratify the desire; it belongs to the many incongruities of an incongruous nature.  But I think if great happiness came to me, I should go back, if only for a day; or if—­” He paused. “—­If I were to break my heart over anything, I believe I’d creep back, like a child to its mother.  We’re odd creatures—­we Irish!”

“I understand you,” said Maxine.  “You have the soul.”

He looked down into the rue Mueller, and a queer smile touched his lips.

“A questionable blessing one is apt to say, princess—­in one’s bad moments!”

“But only in one’s bad moments!” Her tone was warm; her words came from her swiftly, after the manner of Max—­the manner that Blake loved.