“A renowned artist!”

It was the woman of the pins and scissors who spoke, surprising Max, not by the sudden sound of her voice, but by her sudden warmth of feeling.  Again Blake’s words came back—­’These are the true citizens of the true Bohemia!’—­and he looked curiously from one to the other of the women, so utterly apart in station, in education, in ideals, yet bound by a common respect for art.

“It is my loss,” he said, quietly, “that I did not, until to-day, know of M. Salas.”

“But no, monsieur!  What would you know of twenty years ago?  It is true that then my husband had a reputation; but, alas, time moves quickly—­and the world is for the young!”

She smiled again, gently and patiently, and a sudden desire seized Max to lift and kiss one of her thin, work-worn hands.  The whole pitiful story of a vogue outlived, of a generation pushed aside, breathed in the silence of these fifth-floor rooms.

“They must be a great pride to you, madame—­these pictures.”

“These, monsieur—­and the fact that he is still with me.  We can dispense with anything save the being we love—­is it not so?  But I must not detain you, talking of myself!  The other rooms are still to see!  This, monsieur, is our second bedroom!  And this the kitchen!”

Max, following her obediently, took one peep into what was evidently her own bedroom—­a tiny apartment of rigid simplicity, in which a narrow bed, with a large black crucifix hanging above it, seemed the only furniture, and passed on into the kitchen, a room scarce larger than a cupboard, in which a gas-stove and a water-tap promised future utility.

“See, monsieur!  Everything is very convenient.  All things are close at hand for cooking, and the light is good.  And now, perhaps, you would wish to pass back into the salon and step out upon the balcony?”

Still silent, still preoccupied, he assented, and they passed into the room so eloquent of past hours and dwindled fortunes.

“See, monsieur!  The view is wonderful!  Not to-day, perhaps, for the frost blurs the distances; but in the spring—­a little later in the year—­”

Crossing the room, she opened the long French window and stepped out upon the narrow iron balcony.

Max followed, and, moving to her side, stood gazing down upon the city of his dreams.  For long he stood absorbed in thought, then he turned and looked frankly into her face.

“Madame,” he said, softly, “it is a place of miracle.  It is here that I shall live.”

She smiled.  She had served an apprenticeship in the reading of the artist’s heart—­the child’s heart.

“Yes, monsieur?  You will live here?”

“As soon, madame, as it suits you to vacate the appartement.”

Again she smiled, gently, indulgently.  “And may I ask, monsieur, whether you have ascertained the figure of the rent?”

“No, madame.”