First plates were brought from the new-filled kitchen shelves; then knives were found, and forks; then the mysterious-looking parcels delivered up their contents—a cold roast chicken, all brown and golden as it had left the oven, cheese, butter, crisp rolls, and crisp red radishes, finally a little basket piled with fruit.
It was a very simple meal, but Blake smiled to himself as he set out the dishes to the best advantage, placed the wine reverentially in the centre to crown the feast, and at last, still tiptoeing, came round to the back of Max's chair and laid his hands over the closed eyes.
"Guess!" he said, as if to a child.
Max gave a little cry, in which surprise and fear struggled for supremacy; then he sprang to his feet, shaking off the imprisoning hands.
"What is it? Who is it?" Then he laughed shamefacedly, and, turning, saw the spread table.
"Oh, mon ami!" His eyes opened wide, and he gazed from the food to Blake. "Mon ami! You have done this for me while I was sleeping!"
His gaze was eloquent even beyond his words, and Blake, finding no fit answer, began to move about the room, collecting the vases that held the candles and carrying them to the table.
"Mon ami!"
"Nonsense, boy! It's little enough I do, goodness knows!"
"This is a great deal."