At any other moment Max would have resented in swift and explicit terms this probing of his private concerns; but the soreness at his heart was too acute to permit of pride.

“Then you are sorry for me, mademoiselle?”

“Yes, monsieur!”

“Because of my spoiled picture?” Waywardness flickered up momentarily.

“No, monsieur!”

“Then why?”

Jacqueline glanced up swiftly, then dropped her eyes.

“Because, monsieur—­being but a woman—­I say to myself ’life is long, and other pictures may be painted; but with love—­or friendship—­’”

“Mademoiselle, that is sufficient!  You are charming—­you are sympathetic—–­ but, like many others, you place too great a value upon those words ‘love’ and ‘friendship.’  It is like this!  If I quarrel with my friend it is doubtless sad, but it only affects myself; if, on the contrary, I paint a bad picture I am making a blot upon a beautiful world!”

“And what of the heart, monsieur?  May there not be sad stains upon the heart—­even if no eyes see them?”

“Now, mademoiselle, you are talking sentiment!”

“And you, monsieur, are materialistic?” For a second a flash of mischief showed in the blue eyes.

Max stiffened his shoulders; made brave show to hide the detestable ache in his soul.

“Yes, mademoiselle,” he said.  “I think, without pride, I may claim to see life wholly, without idealization.”

Quite unexpectedly Jacqueline clapped her hands and laughed, stepping close to him with an engaging air of mystery.

“Then all is well!  I have a physic for all your ills!”

He looked distrustful.

“A physic?”

“This, monsieur—­that you put aside the great sorrow of your picture, and the little sorrow of your friend—­and step across and partake of dejeuner with Lucien and me.  A very special dejeuner, I assure you; no less than a poulet bonne femme, cooked with a care—­”

She threw out her hands in an ecstasy of expression, a portrayal of the artless greed that had more than once brought a smile to the boy’s lips.  But this time no amusement was called up; disgust rose strong within him and, accompanying it, a certainty that were Jacqueline’s chicken to be laid before him, he must assuredly choke with the first morsel.  One does not eat when one has failed in one’s art—­or quarrelled with one’s best friend!

“Mademoiselle,” he said, unsteadily, “you are kind—­and I am not without appreciation.  But to-day I have no appetite—­food does not call to me.  Doubtless, there are days when M. Cartel cannot eat.”  He strove to force a laugh.

Jacqueline looked humorously grave.

“When Lucien cannot work, monsieur, he eats the more!  It is only on the days when work flows from him that I am compelled to drag him to the table—­those days or, perhaps, the days—­” She stopped discreetly.