"Why, you're ill, boy!" he said. "You're as white as a sheet!"
Max tried to laugh. "It is the heat—nothing more."
"Of course it is! The place is like a hot-house! You want a breath of air!"
Again Max tried to laugh, but it was a laugh oddly broken.
"That is it!" he said. "I want the air."
CHAPTER XX
MAX passed down the long, low room, blind to the white light, blind to the flowers and faces, deaf to the voices and laughter and swaying sound of stringed instruments.
One glance he permitted himself—one only—at the table where the man and woman still looked into each other's eyes and where the sheaf of pink roses still shed its incense: then he passed down the steep, short stairs, halting at the door of the café, hesitating between two atmospheres—outside, the sharp street lights, the cold, wind-swept pavement—within, the hot air, the close sense of humanity, powerful as a narcotic.