M. Lucien Cartel in every-day life and to the casual observer was a good fellow with a fund of enthusiasm and a ready tongue; M. Lucien Cartel to the woman he loved and in the enchanted world of his art was a mortal imbued warmly and surely with a spark of the divinity he derided.  There is no niggardliness in Bohemia:  it made him as happy to give of his music as it made his listeners to receive, with the consequence that time was dethroned and that four people sat entranced, claiming nothing from the world outside, more than content in the knowledge that the world had no eyes for the doings of a little room on the heights of Montmartre.

From opera to opera M. Cartel wandered, now humming a passage under his breath in accompaniment to his playing, again raising his soft, southern voice in an abandonment of enthusiasm.

It was following close upon some such enthusiastic moment that Max rose, crossed the room, and taking a violin and bow from where they lay upon a wooden bench against the wall, carried them silently to the piano.

As silently M. Cartel received them and, lifting the violin, tucked it under his chin and raised the bow.

There is no need to detail the magic that followed upon that simple action.  The world—­even his own Paris—­has never heard of M. Lucien Cartel, and cares not to know of the pieces that he played, the degree of his technique, the truth of his interpretation; but when at last the hand that held the violin dropped to his side and, lifting his right arm, he wiped his damp forehead with the sleeve of his coat, the faces of his audience were pale as the faces of those who have looked upon hidden places, and in the eyes of the little Jacqueline there were tears.

A moment of silence; then M. Cartel laid down his violin and laughed.  The laugh broke the spell:  Jacqueline, with a childish cry of excitement, flew across the room and, throwing her arms about his neck, kissed him with unashamed fervor; Blake and Max pressed round the piano, and in an instant the room was humming again to the sound of voices, and some one made the astounding discovery that it was five o’clock.

This was Blake’s opportunity—­the opportunity loved beyond all others of the Irishman, when it is permissible to offer hospitality.  The idea came to him as an inspiration, and was seized upon as such.  Eager as a boy, he laid one hand on Max’s shoulder, the other on that of M. Cartel.

’He had a suggestion to make!  One that admitted of no refusal!  M. Cartel had entertained them regally; he must suffer them to make some poor return.  There was a certain little cafe where the chef knew his business and the wine really was wine—­’ He looked from one face to another for approval, and perhaps it was but natural that his eyes should rest last and longest on the face of Max.

So it was arranged.  A dinner is a question readily dealt with in the quarter of Montmartre, and soon the four—­laughing, talking, arguing—­were hurrying down the many steps of the Escalier de Sainte-Marie, bent upon the enjoyment of the hour.