He turned. Again the light of inspiration, the curious illumination was
apparent in his face.

"This is most wonderful!" he said. "Most wonderful! It is here that I
shall live. Here--here--with Paris at my feet."

Blake laughed--laughed good-humoredly at the finality, the artless
arrogance of the tone.

"It may not be so easy to find a dwelling in the shadow of the
Sacré-Coeur."

Max looked at him with calm, grave eyes. "I do not consider
difficulties, monsieur. It is here that I shall live. My mind is made
up."

"But this is not the artists' quarter. You may seek your inspiration in
Montmartre, but you must have your studio across the river."

"Why must I? What compels me?"

The Irishman shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing compels you, but it is the
thing to do. You can live here, certainly, if you want to--there is no
law to forbid it--and you can find a studio on the Boulevard de Clichy;
but the other is the thing to do."

The boy smiled his young wise smile. "Monsieur, there is only one thing
to do--the thing one wants to do, the thing the heart compels. If I am
to know Paris I will know her from here--study her, love her from here.
This place is one of miracle. One might know life here, living in the