Max spoke softly, a disproportionate seriousness darkening his eyes, causing his voice to quiver.
Blake turned to answer in the same vein, but something checked him—some embarrassment, some inexplicable doubt of himself.
"Boy," he said, sharply, "we're running into deep waters. Don't you think we ought to steer for shore? I came to smoke, you know, and watch you at your work."
The words acted as a charm. Max threw up his head and gave a little laugh, a trifle high, a shade hysterical.
"But, of course! But, of course! I believe I, too, was falling into a dream; and the dream comes after, the work first, is it not so? The work first; the work always first. Place another log upon the fire and begin to smoke, and I swear to you that before the day is finished I will make you proud of me. I swear it to you!"
CHAPTER XVII
THERE is impetus, if not necessarily inspiration in a goading thought, and Max returned to his interrupted task with a zeal almost in excess of his protestations. He worked with vigor—with an exuberant daring that seemed to suggest that the creation of his picture was rather the creation of a mental narcotic than the expression of an idea.
He had given rein to sentiment in the moment with Blake, and now he was applying the curb, working incessantly—- never pausing to speak—never casting a glance at the corner where his companion was smoking and dreaming over the fire.