“It is neither, monsieur!” Jacqueline was very demure now, her eyes sought the floor.  “Granted your full permission, monsieur, I would say—­”

“You would say—?”

“I would say”—­she flashed a daring look at him and instantly dropped her eyes again—­“I would say that you have twenty-four, if not twenty-five years!”

The confession came in a little rush of speech, and as it left her lips she moved toward the door, contemplating flight.

An immense surprise clouded Max’s mind, a surprise that brought the blood mantling to his face and sent his words forth with a stammering indecision.

“Twenty-four—­twenty-five!  What gave you that idea?”

“Oh, monsieur, it is simple!  It came to me by observation!”

Leaving Max still red, still confused, she slipped out of the room noiselessly as she had come, and as the door closed he heard the faint, exasperating sound of a light little laugh.

CHAPTER XVI

After Jacqueline had closed the door and the light laugh had died into silence, Max stood before his easel, hands inert, the flush still scorching his face.  For the first time since the birth of the new life he had been made sensible of personal criticism—­the criticism winged with fine ridicule, that leaves its victim strangely uncertain, curiously uneasy.  The immemorial subtlety of woman had lurked in the girl’s eyes as she cast her last penetrating glance at him.  He felt now, as he stood alone, that his soul had been stripped and was naked to the bare walls and gaping canvas, and his start was one of purely unbalanced nerves when a knock fell upon the door, telling of a new intruder.

He had all but cried out in protest when the door opened, but at sight of the invader the cry merged into an unstrung laugh of welcome.

“Ned!  You?”

Blake walked into the room, talking as he came.  “Well, upon my word!  Wasn’t I right?  Here he is, easel and canvas and all—­even the temper isn’t wanting!”

Max ran forward, caught and clung to his arm.

“Mon ami! Mon cher!  I have wanted you—­wanted you.”

“Anything wrong?”

“No!  No!  Nothing.  It was only—­”

“What?”

Again Max laughed nervously, but his fingers tightened.

“Only this—­I have wanted to hear you say that I am your friend—­your boy, Max—­as I was yesterday and the day before and the day before.  Say it!  Say it!” His eyes besought Blake’s.

“What!  Tell you you are yourself?”

He nodded quickly and seriously.

The other looked into his face, and for some unaccountable reason his amusement died away.

“What a child it is!” he said kindly; and, putting his hands upon the boy’s shoulders, he shook him gently.  “Who has been putting notions into your head?  Whoever it is, just refer him to me; I’ll deal with him.”