Then, as if half ashamed of the emotional moment, he gave a little laugh, satirical and yet sad.
"Was there never a little dancer," he added, "never a little model in all these years—and you so very ancient?"
The boy ignored the jest.
"I am not a believer in love," he said, evasively.
"Not a believer in love! Well, upon my soul, the world is getting very old! You look like a child from school, and you talk like some quaint little book I might have picked up on the quais. What does it all mean?"
At the perplexity of the tone Max laughed. "Very little, mon ami! I am no philosopher; but about this love, I have thought a little, and have gained to a conclusion. It is like this! Light love is desire of pleasure; great love is fear of being alone."
"Then you hold that man should be alone?"
"Why not?" Max shrugged his shoulders. "We come into the world alone; we go out of it alone."
"A cold philosophy!"
"A true one, I think. If more lives were based upon it we would have more achievement and less emotion."