He turned, to meet the eyes of the host, a stout and affable Frenchman, who by right divine held first place among the little group of loungers; but before he could frame a reply, Blake answered for him.
"He is an artist, M. Fruvier, and finds all life interesting."
M. Fruvier bowed with much subtle comprehension.
"Then possibly it will intrigue him to step inside, and hear our little concert. We are about to commence."
Blake nodded in silent acquiescence; the knot of men bowed quickly and stiffly; and Max found himself being led across the bare, sawdust-strewn floor into an inner and larger room—a holy of holies—where the light was dimmer and the air more cool.
Here, a scattered audience was assembled—a score or so of individuals, sober of dress, unenthusiastic of demeanor, sitting in twos and threes, sipping beer or liqueurs and waiting for the concert to begin.
Max's eyes wandered over this collection of people while Blake sought for seats, but his glance and his interest passed on almost immediately to the walls, where, as in the outer room, pictures ranged from floor to ceiling.
The seats were chosen; a white-aproned waiter claimed an order, and Blake gave one as if from habit.
"And now, boy, a cigarette?"
"If you please—a cigarette!" Max's voice had the quick note, his eyes the swift light that spoke excitement. "Mon ami, I like this place! I like it! And I wonder who painted that?" He indicated a picture that hung upon the wall beside them.