"Boy," he said at last, "let me come up sometimes when you're messing with your paints? I won't bother you."
Max looked up and nodded—a mere flash of a look, but one that conveyed sufficient; and the two relapsed again into silence.
At the end of an hour the boy raised his head, tossed a lock of hair out of his eyes, and closed his sketch-book.
Blake met his eyes comprehendingly. "Will we go?"
"Yes. But one more glance at this black-and-white!"
He jumped up, unembarrassed, unconscious of self, and looked at the picture closely; then stepped back and looked at it from a little distance, eyes half closed, head critically upon one side.
"Satisfied?" Blake rose more slowly.
"Perfectly. It is clever—this! It has imagination!" He slipped his arm confidingly through Blake's, and together they made a way to the door.
A new song began as they stepped into the outer room—the tinkle of the piano came thinly across the smoke-laden air. Blake paused and looked back.
"Well, and what do you think of it? A trifle dull, perhaps, but still—"