Once again Max spoke softly, with the softness that broke so alluringly across the reckless independence of look and gesture.
A sudden consciousness of this fascination—a sudden annoyance with himself that he should yield to it—touched Blake.
"I can't go with you to Montmartre," he said, abruptly. "It's McCutcheon's last day in Paris, and I promised to give him the afternoon."
"Who? The long, spider man who disliked me?"
"A spider who weaves big webs, I can tell you! You ought to be more respectful to your elders."
"And I ought to have a studio across the river? Oh, Monsieur Ned, order some food, for the love of God! I am perishing of hunger."
Blake ordered the déjeuner, and talked a great deal upon indifferent subjects while they ate; but each felt jarred, each felt disappointed, though neither could exactly have said why. At last, with a certain relief, they finished their coffee and made a way between the long lines of tables to the door.
There they halted for a moment in mutual hesitation, and at last the boy held out his hand.
"And now I must wish you good-bye! Shall I see you any more?"
Blake seemed lost in thought; he took no notice of the proffered hand.