Try to think what she is saying!" He paused, and they stood breathless and enchained, while the violin trembled under the hand of its master, vibrant and penetrating.
"What is it she says ?" Max whispered the words.
Blake's reply was to murmur the burden of the song in the same hushed way as he had spoken the song of the _Noctambule_.
"Depuis le jour ou je me suis donnee, toute fleurie semble ma destinee.
Je crois rever sous un ciel de feerie, l'ame encore grisee de ton premier baiser!" But, abruptly--abruptly as a light might be extinguished--the music ceased, and Max released Blake's hand.
"It is all most wonderful," he said; "but the words of that song--they do not quite please me." "Why?
Have you never sung that '_l'ame encore grisee de ton premier baiser_!'" 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.