CHAPTER XIV
THE meal was over; the candles had burned low; in the quiet, warm room the sense of repose was dominant.
Blake took out his cigarette-case and passed it across the table, watching Max with lazy interest as he chose a cigarette and lighted it at a candle-flame.
"Happy?"
"Absolutely!"
He had wanted in a vague, subconscious way to see the flash of the white teeth, the quick, familiar lifting of the boy's glance, and now he smiled as a man secretly satisfied.
"I know just exactly what you're feeling," he said, as Max threw himself back in his chair and inhaled a first deep breath of smoke. "You feel that that little white curl from the end of your cigarette is the last puff of smoke from the boats you have burned; and that, with your own four walls around you, you can snap your fingers at the world. I know! God, don't I know!"
Max smiled slowly, watching the tip of his cigarette. "Yes, you know! That is the beautiful thing about you."
The appreciation warmed Blake's soul as the good red wine had warmed his blood.
"I believe I do—with you. I believe I could tell you precisely your thoughts at this present moment." With a pleasant, meditative action, he drew a cigar from his case.