"Why, carting canvases and paint tubes, and God knows what, up those steps till your back is broken, and then settling down with your temper and your ambition at fever heat to begin the great picture at the most inopportune moment in the world! Think I don't know you?"
Max laughed again, but more softly.
"Mon ami!"
"I'm right, eh? That sketch at the cabaret is meant to grow?"
Instantly Max was diffident. "Oh, I am not so sure! It is only an idea. It may not arrive at anything."
"Let's have a look?"
Max's hand went slowly toward his pocket. "I am not sure that I like it; it is not my theory of life. It's more of your theory—it is ironical."
"Let's see!"
The sketch-book came reluctantly to light, and as Max opened it, the two stepped close to a street lamp.
"As I tell you, it is ironical. If it becomes a picture I shall give it this name—The Failure." He handed it to Blake, leaning close and peering over his shoulder in nervous anxiety.