So far, well!  But happy assurance emanated from him, and success is compounded of such assurance.  He knocked upon Blake’s door, certain that Blake himself and not his servant would answer to his summons; and as though the gods smiled at the childish confidence, his certainty was rewarded.  The sound of a familiar step set his pulses racing, a hand was laid upon the door, and desire became accomplished.

“What!  Max?”

“Yes, Max!  Is he welcome?” All the hoarded strength of the night was audible in the words.  Max threw up his head, met Blake’s eyes, held out his hand—­the boy in every particular.

“Welcome?  As welcome as the flowers in May!  Come in!  Come along in!” Blake had accepted the masquerade; all was as before.

Together they passed into the salon, and instantly Blake became host—­the role of roles for him.

“Now, boy, don’t tell me you have breakfasted!  But even if you have, you must breakfast again.  Come, sit down!  Sit down!  My fellow makes most excellent coffee—­good as Madame Gustav’s of the rue Fabert!  Remember the rue Fabert?”

So he rattled on, placing a second chair, seeking an additional cup, and ever Max listened, happy with an acute happiness that almost touched the verge of tears.

But though emotion choked him he played his part gallantly.  He was the boy of old days to the very life, swaggering a little in a youthful forgivable conceit, playing the lord of creation to an amused, sympathetic audience.

“Ned,” he cried at last, flinging his words from him with all the old frank ease, “tell me to apologize!”

Blake looked up, and the affection, the tolerance in the look quivered through Max’s senses.

“Now, boy!  Now!” he warned.  “Be careful what you’re saying!  It’s only very ordinary friends talk about apologies.  And I don’t think we have ever been very ordinary friends.”

“No!  No!  But still—­”

“Well, say your say!”

The tone was full of indulgence, but, also, it was touched with subtler things.  This unexpected invasion had pleased and flattered Blake; it spoke an influence used on his behalf that he dared not have claimed—­dared not have expected.

Max walked to the window, looked down an instant into the brilliant, sunlit street, came back to Blake’s side, all with a swift impulsiveness.

“Ned, I am the same friend—­the same comrade?”

“Indeed, yes!”

“But you do not think I possess a soul?”

Blake, taken unawares, colored like any boy.

“Oh, come!”

“But it is true.  I know, for I have been told.  And you are wrong—­quite wrong.”

Blake was about to laugh, but he looked at the young face, suddenly grown grave, and his own words came back to him guiltily.  ’Max’s lips were made for laughter—­his eyes are too bright for tears!’

“Poor little faun!” he said, with jesting tenderness.  “Have I misjudged you?”