“You are quite right!” he said, “and I despise myself instantly I have uttered such a cynicism.  The capacity to feel is worth all the pain it brings.  If one had but a single moment of realization, one should die content.  That is the essential—­to have known the highest.”

Once again Maxine had the sense of lifting a tangible veil, of gaining a glimpse of the hidden personality—­not the half-sceptical, pleasant, friendly Blake of the boy’s acquaintance, but Blake the dreamer, the idealist who sought some grail of infinite holiness figured in his own imagination, zealously guarded from the scoffer and the worldling.  A swift desire pulsed in her to share the knowledge of this quest—­to see the face of the knight illumined for his adventure—­to touch the buckles of his armor.

“Monsieur,” she whispered, “if you were to die to-night, would you die satisfied?”

In the silence that had fallen upon them, Blake had turned his face to the stars, but now again his glance sought hers.

“No, princess,” he said, simply.

No weapons are more potent than brevity and simplicity.  His answer brought the blood to her face as no long dissertation could have brought it; it was so direct, so personal, so compounded of subtle values.

“Then you have not known the highest?” It was not she who framed the question; some power outside herself constrained her to its speaking.

“I have recognized perfection,” he said, “but I have not known it.  And sometimes my weaker self—­the primitive, barbaric self—­cries out against the limitation; sometimes—­”

“Sometimes—?”

“Nothing, princess—­and everything!” With a sudden wave of self-control he brought himself back to the moment and its responsibilities.  “Forgive me!  And, if you are merciful, dismiss me!  They say we Irish talk too much.  I am afraid I am a true Irishman.”  He laughed, but there was a sound behind the laughter that brought tears to her eyes.

“Monsieur, it has been happy to-night?”

“It has been heaven.”

“We are not wholly a trouble to you—­Max and I?”

She put out her hand, and he took it.

“Max is my friend, princess; you are my sovereign lady.”

The night was close about them; Paris was below, gilding the rose of human love; the church domes were above, tending whitely toward the stars.  Maxine moved nearer to him, her heart beating fast, her whole radiant being dispensing fragrance.

“Monsieur, if I am your lady, pay me homage!”

The enchantment was delicate and perfect; her voice wove a spell, her slight, strong fingers trembled in his.  He had been less than man had he refused the moment.  Silently he bent his head, and his lips touched her hand in a swift, ardent kiss.

CHAPTER XXX

Maxine was in high exaltation—­the exaltation that makes no count of cost.  Yesterday mattered not at all; to-morrow might never dawn!  As the outer door closed upon Blake, she turned back into the lighted salon—­the little salon of Max’s books, of Max’s boyish tastes—­the little salon loved beyond all rooms in Paris!