“Well, messieurs, and what of our new one?  Not a Vagot, perhaps”—­mentioning a famous comique whose star had risen in the firmament of the cabaret—­“not a Vagot, perhaps, but not bad!  Not bad?”

“Not bad!” acquiesced Blake.

“Very good!” added Max, pondering hotly upon the wage of the singer, and regarding M. Fruvier with doubtful glance.

“No!  No!  Not bad!” reiterated that gentleman, as if viewing the performance from a wholly impersonal standpoint.  “Not bad!” And, still bowing, still smiling, he wandered on to exchange opinions with his other patrons, while a new singer appeared, a man whose vast proportions and round red face looked truly absurd upon the tiny stage, but whose merry eye and instant friendly nod gained him a murmur of welcome.

With the appearance of the new-comer a little stir of life was felt, and in obedience to some impulse of his own, Max took a sketch-book and a pencil from his pocket, and sat forward in his seat, with glance roving round and round the room, pencil poised above the paper.

“I heard this fellow here twelve years ago,” said Blake.  “He and Vagot were young men then.  Shows the odd lie of things in this world!  There’s Vagot making his thousands of francs a week next door at the Moulin Rouge, and this poor fat clown still where he was!”

Max did not reply.  His head was bent, his face flushed; he was sketching with a furious haste.

“What are you doing?”

Still no reply.  The song rolled on; and Blake, leaning back in his seat, smoking with leisurely enjoyment, felt for perhaps the first time in his life the sense of complete companionship—­that subtle condition of mind so continuously craved, so rarely found, so instantly recognized.

“Boy,” he said at last, “let me come up sometimes when you’re messing with your paints?  I won’t bother you.”

Max looked up and nodded—­a mere flash of a look, but one that conveyed sufficient; and the two relapsed again into silence.

At the end of an hour the boy raised his head, tossed a lock of hair out of his eyes, and closed his sketch-book.

Blake met his eyes comprehendingly.  “Will we go?”

“Yes.  But one more glance at this black-and-white!”

He jumped up, unembarrassed, unconscious of self, and looked at the picture closely; then stepped back and looked at it from a little distance, eyes half closed, head critically upon one side.

“Satisfied?” Blake rose more slowly.

“Perfectly.  It is clever—­this!  It has imagination!” He slipped his arm confidingly through Blake’s, and together they made a way to the door.

A new song began as they stepped into the outer room—­the tinkle of the piano came thinly across the smoke-laden air.  Blake paused and looked back.

“Well, and what do you think of it?  A trifle dull, perhaps, but still—­”

“Dull?  But no!  Never!  I could work here.  Others have worked here.  It is in the atmosphere—–­ the desire to create.”