It was a scene curious beyond description—­the hot, white room, the many painted faces, the many jewelled hands, the grotesque black forms of the negro dancers, and in the midst a woman hypnotized by her own triumph into absolute oblivion.

She sat with the roses in her hands, her eyes looking into space, while her voice, pure and singularly true, gathered strength until gradually the chattering of voices and the clinking of glasses lessened, and the musicians lowered their music to a deliberate accompaniment.

Nowhere but in Paris could such a scene take place; but here, although the faces turned toward the singer’s were flushed with wine, they were touched with comprehension.  The gathered roses—­the high, sweet voice—­the rapt face composed a picture, and even when his eyes are glazed, your Parisian is a connoisseur.

The last note quivered into silence; a little ripple of applause followed; and with the same concentrated, hypnotized gaze, the woman’s eyes turned from space and rested again upon the man.

It was the glance ancient as tradition—­significant as fate.  At his distant table, Max rose and laid a trembling hand upon Blake’s arm.

“Ned!  May we go?”

“Oh, why?  The night is young!”

“Please!”

“But why?”

“I desire it.”

Blake looked more closely, and his expression changed.

“Why, you’re ill, boy!” he said.  “You’re as white as a sheet!”

Max tried to laugh.  “It is the heat—­nothing more.”

“Of course it is!  The place is like a hot-house!  You want a breath of air!”

Again Max tried to laugh, but it was a laugh oddly broken.

“That is it!” he said.  “I want the air.”

CHAPTER XX

Max passed down the long, low room, blind to the white light, blind to the flowers and faces, deaf to the voices and laughter and swaying sound of stringed instruments.

One glance he permitted himself—­one only—­at the table where the man and woman still looked into each other’s eyes and where the sheaf of pink roses still shed its incense:  then he passed down the steep, short stairs, halting at the door of the cafe, hesitating between two atmospheres—­outside, the sharp street lights, the cold, wind-swept pavement—­within, the hot air, the close sense of humanity, powerful as a narcotic.

“Ned!” he said, looking back for Blake, “I need a favor.  Will you grant it?”

“A hundred!” Blake was buttoning up his coat.

“Then wish me good-night here.  I would go home alone.”

“Alone?  What nonsense!  You don’t think I’d desert you when you’re seedy?  What you want is air.  We’ll take a stroll along the boulevards.”

Max shook his head.  He seemed rapt in his own thoughts; his pale face was full of purpose.

“I am quite well—­now.”

“Then all the more reason for the stroll!  Come along!”