“Give me that rag!” He took the sopping handkerchief and flung it into a distant corner.  “A wisp of this straw is much more useful—­less beautiful, I admit!”

Max glanced up with wide eyes, extremely wistful and youthful in expression.  “I do not believe I care about either the use or the beauty,” he said, plaintively.  “I only care that I am hungry and that my coffee is lost.”

“Hungry, boy?  Why, bless my soul, you must be starving!  What time is it at all?” Blake pulled out his watch.  “Eleven!  And we’ve been at this hard since eight!  Hungry!  I should think you are.  Look here!  You just sit down!” He pushed aside the many objects that encumbered the floor, and began impatiently to strip the packing from a leather arm-chair.

Max laughed a little.

“But, mon cher, I prefer the ground—­this nice warm little corner close to the fire.  One day I think I shall have two cushions, like your Bluebeard of the curio shop, and sit all day long with my legs crossed, imagining myself a Turk.  Like this!” He drew back against the wall, curling himself up with supple agility, and smiled into his companion’s eyes.

Blake looked down, half amused, half concerned.

“Poor little gamin!  Tired and dirty and hungry.  Just you wait!” Nodding decisively, he crossed the room, opened the door softly, and disappeared.

Left to himself, Max drew farther back into his warm corner and clasped his hands about his knees.  Max was enjoying himself.  The fact was patent in the lazy ease of his pose, in the smile that hovered about his lips, in the slow, pleased glance that travelled round and round the bare room and the furniture still standing ghostly in its packing.  It was still the joyful beginning of things:  the clean white paper upon the walls spoke of first hours as audibly as the bunch of jonquils peeping from a dark corner spoke of spring.  It was still the beginning of things—­the salt before the sweet, the ineffable, priceless moment when life seems malleable and to be bent to the heart’s desire.

One month had passed since his first visit to this fifth floor; one month since he had entered Paris, armored in his hopes; one month since Blake had crossed his path.

The smile upon his lips deepened, then wavered to seriousness, and his gaze turned from the white wall to the fire, where the flames from the logs spurted copper and blue.

One month.  A dream—­or a lifetime?

Gazing into the fire, questioning his own fancy, he could scarce decide which; a dream in the quick moving of events—­the swift viewing of new scenes; a lifetime in alteration of outlook and environment—­the severing and knitting of bonds.

The happy seriousness was still enfolding him, his eyes were still intent upon the fire, when Blake entered, triumphant, carrying a coffee-pot, and followed by a demure girl with blonde hair and delicate pale skin.