Smiling to himself, he replenished the fire with exaggerated stealth; and, creeping out of the room, closed the door behind him.

He was gone for over half an hour, and when he again entered, the fire had sprung into new life, and fresh flames—­blue and sulphur and copper-colored—­were dancing up the chimney, while the candles in their strange abiding-places had burned an inch or two lower.  But his eyes were for Max, and for Max alone, and with the same intense stealth he crept across the room to the bare table and solemnly unburdened himself of a variety of parcels and a cheery-looking bottle done up in red tissue-paper.

Max still slept, and, drawing a sigh of satisfaction, he proceeded with the task he had set himself—­the task of providing supper after the manner of the genius in the fairy-tale.

First plates were brought from the new-filled kitchen shelves; then knives were found, and forks; then the mysterious-looking parcels delivered up their contents—­a cold roast chicken, all brown and golden as it had left the oven, cheese, butter, crisp rolls, and crisp red radishes, finally a little basket piled with fruit.

It was a very simple meal, but Blake smiled to himself as he set out the dishes to the best advantage, placed the wine reverentially in the centre to crown the feast, and at last, still tiptoeing, came round to the back of Max’s chair and laid his hands over the closed eyes.

“Guess!” he said, as if to a child.

Max gave a little cry, in which surprise and fear struggled for supremacy; then he sprang to his feet, shaking off the imprisoning hands.

“What is it?  Who is it?” Then he laughed shamefacedly, and, turning, saw the spread table.

“Oh, mon ami!” His eyes opened wide, and he gazed from the food to Blake. “Mon ami! You have done this for me while I was sleeping!”

His gaze was eloquent even beyond his words, and Blake, finding no fit answer, began to move about the room, collecting the vases that held the candles and carrying them to the table.

“Mon ami!”

“Nonsense, boy!  It’s little enough I do, goodness knows!”

“This is a great deal.”

“Nonsense!  What is it?  You were fagged and I was fresh!  And now I suppose I must knock the head off this bottle, for we haven’t a corkscrew.  The Lord lend me a steady hand, for ’twould be a pity if I shook the wine!”

He carried the bottle to the fireplace, and with considerable dexterity cracked the head and wiped the raw glass edges.  “Now, boy, the glasses!  Oh, but have we glasses, though?” His face fell in a manner that set Max laughing.

“We have one glass—­in my room.”

“Bravo!  Fly for it!”

Max laughed again—­his sleep, his surprise, his gratitude equally routed; he flew, in literal obedience to the command, across the little hall and, groping his way to the dressing-table, searched about in the darkness for the tumbler.