The room was small but lofty, and a fine light made his work possible. The inevitable wood fire crackled on the hearth, but otherwise the atmosphere spoke rigidly of toil.
Zeal, endeavor, ambition in its youngest, divinest form--these were the suggestions dormant in the strewn canvases, the tall easel, the bare walls; and none who were to know, or who had known, Max--none destined to kindle to the flame of his personality, ever viewed him in more characteristic guise than he appeared on that February morning clad in his painting smock, the lock of hair falling over his forehead, his hands trembling with excitement, as he executed the first bold line that meant the birth of his idea.
So remarkable, so characteristic was the pose that chance, ever with an eye to effect, ordained it an observer, for scarcely had he lost himself in the work than the door of his studio opened with a Bohemian lack of ceremony, and his neighbor, Jacqueline--dressed in a blue print dress that matched her eyes--came smiling into the room.
"You are displeased, monsieur; I intrude?"
The tone was uncompromising, but Jacqueline came on, softly moving nearer and nearer to the easel, looking from the canvas to Max and back again to the canvas in an amused, secret fashion comprehensible to herself alone.
"You feel like my poor Lucien, when an interruption offers itself to his work; but, as I say, _ennui_ is the price of admiration! Is it not so, Monsieur Max?"
She leaned her blonde head to one side, and looked at him with the naïve quality of meditation that so became her.
"Do not permit me to disturb you, monsieur! Continue working."
"Thank you, mademoiselle!" A flicker of irony was observable in the tone and, with exaggerated zeal, he returned to his task.
The girl came softly behind him, looking over his shoulder.
"It is an idea caught last night in a _cabaret_. It would not interest you."
Max shrugged his shoulders, and went on blocking in his picture.
"Because it is a psychological study--a side-issue of existence. Nothing to do with the crude facts of life."
"Oh!" Jacqueline drew in her breath softly. "I am only interested, then, in the crude facts? How do you arrive at that conclusion, monsieur?"
"It is difficult to say--in words. In a picture I would put it like this--a blue sky, a meadow of rank green grass, a stream full of forget-me-nots, and a girl bending over it, with eyes the color of the flowers. Conventionality would compel me to call it _Spring_ or _Youth_!" He spoke fast and he spoke contemptuously.