This leather chair stood like a faithful sentinel close to the open window, and as his eyes rested on it he was conscious of a pained contraction of the heart, for it stood exactly where it had stood when last he watched the stars and rambled through his dreams and ideals, with the boy for listener.  The thought came quick and sharp, goading him as many a puzzled thought had goaded him in his months of solitude, and as at Versailles, he turned to Maxine, a question on his lips.

But again she checked that question.  Stepping through the shadows, she drew him across the room toward the window.  Reaching the old chair, she touched his shoulder, gently compelling him to sit down.

“Ned,” she said, and to her own ears the word sounded infinitely far away.  “I seem to you very mad.  But you have a great patience.  Will you be patient a little longer?”

She had withdrawn behind the chair, laying both her hands upon his shoulders, and as she spoke her voice shook in an unconquerable nervousness, her whole body shook.

“My sweet!” He turned quickly and looked up at her.  “What is all this?  Why are you torturing yourself?  For God’s sake, let us be frank with each other—­”

But she pressed his shoulders convulsively.  “Wait! wait!  It is only a little moment now.  I implore you to wait!”

He sank back, and as in a dream felt her fingers release their hold and heard her move gently back across the room; then, overwhelmed by the burden of dread that oppressed him, he leaned forward, bowing his face upon his hands.

Minutes passed—­how few, how many, he made no attempt to reckon—­then again the hushed steps sounded behind him, the sense of a gracious presence made itself felt.

Instinctively he attempted to rise, but, as before, Maxine’s hands were laid upon his shoulders, pressing him back into his seat.  He saw her hands in the starlight—­saw the glint of his own ring.

“Ned!”

“Dear one?”

“It is dim, here in this room, but you know me?  Your soul sees me?” Her voice was shaking, her words sobbed like notes upon an instrument strung to breaking pitch.

“My dear one!  My dear one!” His voice, too, was sharp and pained; he strove to turn in his chair, but she restrained him.

“No!  No!  Say it without looking.  You know me?  I am Maxine?”

“Of course you are Maxine!”

“Ah!”

It was a short, swift sound like the sobbing breath of a spent runner.  It spoke a thousand things, and with its vibrations trembling upon her lips, Maxine came round the chair and Blake, looking up, saw Max—­Max of old, Max of the careless clothes, the clipped waving locks.

It is in moments grotesque or supreme that men show themselves.  He sprang to his feet; he stared at the apparition until his eyes grew wide, but all he said was ‘God!’ very softly to himself.  ‘God!’ And then again, ‘God!’