"Understand, it is but an idea! I have put no work into it."
Blake held the book up to the light, his observant face grave and interested.
"What a clever little beggar you are!" he said at length.
Max glowed at the words, and instantly his tongue was loosed.
"Ah, mon cher, but it is only a sketch! That atmosphere—that dim, smoky atmosphere—is so difficult with the pencil. The audience is, of course, but suggested; all that I really attempted was the singer—the failure with the merry eyes."
"And well you've caught him too, by gad! One would think you had seen the antithesis—Vagot, the success, long and lean and yellow, the unhappiest-looking man you ever saw."
"Ah, but you must not say that!" cried Max unexpectedly. "I told you it was not my theory. To me success is life, failure is death! This is but a reflected impression of yours—- an impression of irony!" He took the sketch-book from Blake's hands and closed it sharply; then, to ask pardon for his little outburst, he smiled.
"Mon cher! Forgive me! Come to-morrow, and we will see if day has thrown new light."
They shook hands.
"All right—to-morrow! Good-night, boy—and good luck!"