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<h2>CHAPTER XXXI</h2> <div class="first">NOTHING less than absolute conviction can shake a strong nature. A wave of doubt swept over Maxine as her little neighbor's words died out and the door closed, leaving her to silence and solitude; but for all her folly, she was strong, and strength such as hers is not shaken by the shaft of a Jacqueline, however cunningly sped.</div> She sat for long, troubled, perplexed—almost, it might have seemed, fearful of herself—- but gradually the strength asserted itself, the fine, blind faith within her asserted itself in a wave of reaction. Some small weakness had been hers, she admitted—some small shrinking from the truth of things! She had been remiss in the application of her test, allowing the dream to oust the reality in that fascinating hour with Blake. Remiss, but no more! At this stage in her meditations, she returned to the balcony, studying the sky anew—drinking in confidence from the glory of the stars, the slight grace of the crescent moon. She became the boy again in mind and heart, enthusiastic, assured, thirsting for action; she looked down upon Paris frankly and without defiance—or so she deemed; and the old, wild suggestions of 'liberty, equality, brotherhood,' seemed to rise, ghostly, from its stones. Enthusiasm is ever a gracious, pardonable thing, because in its essentials are youth and zeal and all high, white-hot qualities whose roots strike not in the base earth. Any sage, nay, any simpleton, seeing Maxine upon the balcony, could have told her what a fool she was; but who would have told it without a pause, without a sigh for the divinity of such folly? Next day she rose, refreshed of body, because refreshed of soul; and arrayed in the garments of her strength, went forth to prove her faith. Max it was—Max of the quick, lithe feet and eager glance—who left the rue Müller, heedless of breakfast, and began his descent upon Paris, making straight for the heart of the citadel with the true instinct of the raider. Up to this moment, Blake's rooms had been a mere name, lying as they did within the forbidden precincts of the fashionable world, but to-day no corner of Paris offered terrors, for the simple reason that Paris itself had come to be incorporated in Blake, and that, being strong enough to dare Blake, Max was strong enough to dare the city. Self-analysis played no part in his mental process as he swung down the steep, familiar streets. A singleness of purpose, high as it was foolish, possessed and inspired him. He loved Blake with a wonderful, unsexual love, and he yearned to lay himself at his feet, to offer him of his best—gifts of the gods, given with free hands from a free heart. Something of the sweet foolishness must have shown upon his face, for when he reached his destination, Blake's concierge, usually a taciturn individual, offered him a welcome as he stepped from the brilliant sunshine into the dim cool hallway, and gave him the information he needed with a good grace. So far, well! But happy assurance emanated from him, and success is compounded of such assurance. He knocked upon Blake's door, certain that Blake himself and not his servant would answer to his summons; and as though the gods smiled at the childish confidence, his certainty was rewarded. The sound of a familiar step set his pulses racing, a hand was laid upon the door, and desire became accomplished. "What! Max?" "Yes, Max! Is he welcome?" All the hoarded strength of the night was audible in the words. Max threw up his head, met Blake's eyes, held out his hand—the boy in every particular. "Welcome? As welcome as the flowers in May! Come in! Come along in!" Blake had accepted the masquerade; all was as before. Together they passed into the salon, and instantly Blake became host—the rôle of rôles for him. "Now, boy, don't tell me you have breakfasted! But even if you have, you must breakfast again. Come, sit down! Sit down! My fellow makes most excellent coffee—good as Madame Gustav's of the rue Fabert! Remember the rue Fabert?" So he rattled on, placing a second chair, seeking an additional cup, and ever Max listened, happy with an acute happiness that almost touched the verge of tears. But though emotion choked him he played his part gallantly. He was the boy of old days to the very life, swaggering a little in a youthful forgivable conceit, playing the lord of creation to an amused, sympathetic audience. "Ned," he cried at last, flinging his words from him with all the old frank ease, "tell me to apologize!" Blake looked up, and the affection, the tolerance in the look quivered through Max's senses. "Now, boy! Now!" he warned. "Be careful what you're saying! It's only very ordinary friends talk about apologies. And I don't think we have ever been very ordinary friends." "No! No! But still—" "Well, say your say!" The tone was full of indulgence, but, also, it was touched with subtler things. This unexpected invasion had pleased and flattered Blake; it spoke an influence used on his behalf that he dared not have claimed—dared not have expected. Max walked to the window, looked down an instant into the brilliant, sunlit street, came back to Blake's side, all with a swift impulsiveness. "Ned, I am the same friend—the same comrade?" "Indeed, yes!" "But you do not think I possess a soul?" Blake, taken unawares, colored like any boy. "Oh, come!" "But it is true. I know, for I have been told. And you are wrong—quite wrong." Blake was about to laugh, but he looked at the young face, suddenly grown grave, and his own words came back to him guiltily. 'Max's lips were made for laughter—his eyes are too bright for tears!' "Poor little faun!" he said, with jesting tenderness. "Have I misjudged you?" Max nodded seriously. "You have. She has made me realize." "Ah! That was like her!" It was Blake's turn to walk to the window; and the boy, watching him eagerly, was unable to place the constraint that suddenly tinged his voice, suddenly veiled his manner. "Ned," he was urged to say, "tell me! Has she brought us nearer together—my sister Maxine?" Blake hesitated; for even your Irishman, brimming to confide, is reticent when he stands before his holy of holies. "Ned, tell me!" The tone was enticing. Blake turned from the window, strode back across the room, cast an affectionate arm about the boy's shoulder. "She is a worker of miracles—your sister Maxine!" The words were warm, the clasp was warm; Max's inspiration gushed up, a fountain of faith. "She understands you? She shows you 'the higher things'?" "By God, she does!" "Then you shall see her once more!" The ideal was predominant; zeal and youth, the white-hot gifts, were lavished at Blake's feet. "Come to the studio to-night, and I shall leave you in her company willingly, gladly, with all my heart. Ned! Say you will come!" And Blake, dreaming his own dream, pressed the boy's shoulder and laughed, and answered with the jest that covers so many things. "Will I come? Will a man turn back from the gate of heaven when Saint Peter uses his key?" <hr style='width: 65%;'> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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