He smiled to himself at this humorously grave homage offered up so untiringly, so zealously to the appetite, as he made his way between the long line of tables at the restaurant where he had appointed to meet Blake.  Like all else that appertains to the Frenchman, its very frankness disarmed criticism or disgust.  He looked at the beaming faces, smiling up from the wide-spread napkins in perfect accord with life, and again, involuntarily, he smiled.  It was essentially a good world, whatever the pessimists might say!

From a side-table he heard his name called, and with an added glow of pleasure, he turned, saw Blake, and made his way through the closely ranged chairs and the throng of hurrying waiters.

“Well, boy!  Dissipation suits you, it seems!  You’re looking well.  Just out of bed, I suppose?”

Max laughed.  Words were brimming to his lips, until he knew not how to speak.

“And now, what ’ll you eat?  I waited to order until you came.”

“I do not know that I can eat.”

“God bless my soul, why not?  Sit down!”

Max laughed again, dropped obediently into a chair, rested his arms on the table, and looked full at Blake.

“May I speak?”

“From now till Doomsday! Garcon!”

But Max laid an impulsive hand upon his arm.

“Wait!  Do not order for one moment!  I must tell you!” He gave a little gasp of excitement.  “I have seen an appartement in the rue Mueller—­an appartement with a charming salon opening upon a balcony, a nice little bedroom, another room with an excellent painting light, a kitchen with water and gas, all—­all for what do you imagine?”

“What in God’s name are you raving about?” Blake laid down the menu just handed to him.

Max paid not the slightest heed.

“All for two hundred and sixty francs the year!  Figure it to yourself!  Two hundred and sixty francs the year!  What one would pay in a couple of days for a suite of hotel rooms!  I am mad since I have seen the place—­quite mad!” He laughed again so excitedly that the people at the neighboring table stared.

“I can subscribe to that!” said Blake, satirically.

“Listen!  Listen!  You have not heard; you have not understood.  I have found an appartement in the rue Mueller, at Montmartre—­the appartement I had set my heart upon, the place where I can live and paint and make my success!”

Blake stared at him in silence.

“Yes!  Yes!” Max insisted.  “And it is all quite settled.  And you are coming back with me to-day at one o’clock to interview the concierge!”

Blake threw himself back in his chair.  “I’m hanged if I am!”

Yesterday the boy would have drawn back upon the instant, armored in his pride, but to-day his reply was to look direct into Blake’s face with fascinating audacity.

“Then you will leave me to contend alone against who can say what villain—­what apache?”