Noel's eyes came down to him. They had the rapt look of a man who sees a vision. "Oh, man," he suddenly exclaimed, "you don't know how I worship her!"
And then abruptly he realized what he had said and to whom, and flushed darkly, averting his look.
Max got to his feet, and faced him across the table. "You've got to worship her always," he said, and in his voice there throbbed some remote echo as of an imprisoned passion deep in his hidden soul. "She'll need the utmost you can offer."
Noel looked back at him again, and the shamed flush died away. He leaned impulsively forward, suddenly, boyishly remorseful for his churlishness.
"Max! Max, old boy! I'm an infernal brute!" he declared. "I was actually forgetting that you—that you——"
"You're quite welcome to forget that," interposed Max grimly. He moved round the table, and clapped a friendly hand on the boy's shoulder. "I shall make it my business to forget it myself," he said. "But look here, don't be headlong! She isn't quite ready for you yet. I speak as a friend; go slow!"
Noel looked at him, and again the hot blood rose to his forehead. He gripped the hand on his shoulder, and held it fast. "I say, Max," he said, an odd sort of deference in his tone, "she doesn't know—does she—what a much better chap you are than I?"
The corner of Max's mouth went up. "Don't talk bosh!" he said.
"I'm not," persisted Noel. "You're doing what I hadn't the spunk to do.
I think she ought to know that."
Max's smile passed from amusement to cynicism. "Do you seriously think a woman loves a man for his good points?" he said.