"Dull? But no! Never! I could work here. Others have worked here. It is in the atmosphere—- the desire to create."
They passed into the street, Blake raising his hat to a stout lady, presumably Madame Fruvier, who sat wedged behind the counter, Max glancing greedily at the bold rough sketches, the brilliantly Parisian caricatures adorning the walls.
"It is in the atmosphere! One breathes it!" he said again, as they walked down the cool, lighted boulevard. "I feel it to-night as I have not felt it before—the artist's Paris. Mon ami"—he raised a glowing face—"mon ami, tell me something! Do you think I shall succeed? Do you think I possess a spark of the great fire—a spark ever so tiny?"
His earnestness was almost comical. He stopped and arraigned his companion, regardless of interested glances and passing smiles.
"Ned, tell me! Tell me! Have you faith in me?"
Blake looked into the feverishly bright eyes, and a swift conviction possessed him.
"I know this, boy, whatever you do, you'll do it finely! More I cannot say."
Max fell silent, and they proceeded on their way, each preoccupied with his own thoughts. At the turning to the heights Blake paused.
"I'll say good-bye here! I have letters to write to-night; but I'll be up to-morrow to spirit you off to lunch. I won't come too early, for I know what you'll be doing all the morning."
Max laughed, coming back out of his dream. "And what is it I shall be doing all the morning?"