She discreetly toyed with her belt during the accepted space of time in which a brain can conceive—a heart leap—to an overmastering joy; then she looked again at Max.
"It is a little idea of my own, monsieur, that you and M. Édouard should make the acquaintance of my Lucien. M. Édouard already consents; I hope that you, monsieur—"
For answer, Max caught her hand. From that moment he loved her—her prettiness, her mischief, her humanity.
"Mademoiselle! I do not understand—and I do understand!"
"But you will come, monsieur?"
"I will eat your chicken, mademoiselle—even to the bones!"
CHAPTER XVIII
COMRADESHIP in its broader sense is Bohemianism at its best; Bohemianism, not as it is imagined by the dilettante—a thing of picturesque penury and exotic vice—but a spontaneous intermingling of personalities, an understanding, a fraternity as purely a gift of the gods as love or beauty.