“All your life?”

“All my life.  But love is not reckoned by time.  One dreams—­and one wakes.”

“You dreamed—­” She closed her eyes, her ears drank in the cadences of his voice.

“Always!  As a child, I dreamed over my play; as a boy, I dreamed over my books—­and as a man, over my loves.  I was never in love with woman—­always in love with love.”

“And now?”

“I am awake—­I have come into my inheritance!  My love!  My love!” It was an instant of intense sensation.  She could feel the beating of his heart; his fingers and hers were interlaced.  “Maxine!  Open your eyes!  Look at me!”

Obediently—­any woman to any man—­she opened them and met his gaze.

“You know?  You understand?”

She stood rigid, her eyes wide, her nostrils dilated—­a creature swaying upon the verge of an abyss, contemplating a plunge into space.

“Maxine!” he said again.  “Maxine!”

It was the primitive human cry.  She heard and acknowledged it in every fibre of her being; she drew a swift, sharp breath, then, with a free gesture, cast her arms about his neck.

“Ned!  Ned!  Say again that you love me!  Say it a thousand, say it a million times and for every time you say it, I will tell you twice that I love you.”

Passion, intoxication sped the words, and Blake’s mouth, closing upon hers, broke the ecstasy of speech.

“I love you!  I worship you!  You are my life.  You are myself.”

Reality vibrated through his speech; and Maxine, hearing, lost herself.  With arms still clasped about him, she leaned her body backward, gazing into his face.

“Again!  Say it again!”

“You are my life!  We are one!  Maxine!  Maxine!” His glance burned her, his arms were close about her.  With a sudden ardent movement, she caught his face between her hands, drew it down, and kissed it full upon the mouth, not once but many times, fiercely, closely; then, with a little cry, inarticulate as the cry of an animal, she freed herself and fled through the salon, through the hall and out upon the landing, the door of the appartement closing behind her.

CHAPTER XXXIII

The door of her appartement closed behind Maxine, and she turned, swift as a coursed hare, to the door of M. Cartel.

No hesitation touched her; she needed sanctuary; sanctuary she must have.  She opened her neighbor’s door, careless of what might lie behind, bringing with her into the quiet rooms a breath of fierce disorder.

The living-room, with its piano and its homely chairs and table, was lighted by a common lamp; and the little Jacqueline, the only occupant, sat in the radius of the light, peacefully sewing at a blue muslin gown that was to adorn a Sunday excursion into the country.

At the sound of the stormy entry she merely raised her head; but at sight of her visitor, she was on her feet in an instant, the heap of muslin flowing in a blue cascade from her lap to the floor.