"Angry! I should think not!"
"Oh yes, you are!" Max's eyes shone, his lips curled into smiles.
"And why should I be angry? Because your silly little wings have begun to sprout? I'm not such a fool, my boy! I knew well enough you'd soon be flying alone."
Max clapped his hands. "Oh yes, you are! You are angry—angry—angry! You are angry because I found my way to Montmartre without you, and made a little discovery all by myself! Is it not like a—" He stopped, laughed, reddened as though he had made some slip, and then on the instant altered his whole expression to one of appeal and contrition.
"Mon ami!"
Blake's reply was to pick up the menu and turn to the attending waiter.
"Monsieur Ned!"
Blake glanced at him reluctantly, caught the softened look, and laughed.
"You're a young scamp—and I suppose I'm a cross-grained devil! But if I was angry, where's the wonder? A man doesn't pick up a quaint little book on the quais, and look to have it turning its own leaves!"
"But now? Now it is all forgiven? You will not cast away your little book because—because the wind came and fluttered the pages?"