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Updated: June 3, 2025
Like the gleam from the lamp that lives in an opal, this mind-brightness of Maxine's pierced the clouds of her beauty capriciously, now half-veiled, now shining forth. It was the light of that flame which men call originality. Maxine saw the world by the light of her own lamp. Adams, though he had seen far more of the world than she, had seen it by the light of other people's lamps.
Maxine had golden-brown hair, worn after the fashion of Cléo de Mérode's, gray eyes, and a wide mouth, with pomegranate-red lips. Goethe's dictum that the highest beauty is unobtainable without something of disproportion was exemplified in the case of Maxine Berselius.
Go to New York and look at the twenty-storied, sky-scrapers built by the Adamses. They look like houses out of a story by Dean Swift. The wildest dreams of architecture. Yet they don't fall down; they serve their purpose, for the dreamers who built them were at bottom practical men. As he paced the deck, smoking and contemplating the moonlit river, Maxine gave place in his mind to her father.
"Yeh," said Arnold Hatch, one evening, when they were talking in the Pardee back yard. It was nine o'clock. Dishes done. A moon. October. Maxine had just murmured her little quatrain. They were standing by the hedge of pampas grass that separated the Pardee yard from Hatch's next door. "Yeh," said Arnold Hatch. "Likewise: "There's Seminole and Shawnee, Apache, Agawam.
"Well," said Adams, "I have promised Berselius, and I will have to go. Besides, there are other considerations." He was thinking of Maxine, and a smile lit up his face. "You seem happy enough about it," said Stenhouse, rising to go. "Well, 'he who will to Cupar maun to Cupar. When do you start?" "I don't know yet, but I shall hear to-night." They passed out into the Rue St.
Adams put the skull on the table; curious and small and ferocious and repellent it looked. One would never have imagined the black face, the grin, and the rolling eyes of the creature to whom it had once belonged. One thing only about it touched the heart with sadness its size. "It is a child's," said Maxine. "Yes; the child I told you of all that remains of it."
He would almost certainly have described to Maxine the box or case which had been stolen from him, and if the thing pulled out from the sofa-hiding-place had recalled his description, she must have betrayed some emotion under the keen eyes of the Commissary of Police.
Perhaps you'll join me?" Maxine took a cigarette, uncertainly. Lighted it from the match he held. Put it to her lips. Coughed, gasped. "Maybe you're not used to those. I smoke a cheap cigarette because I like 'em. Dromedaries, those are. Eighteen cents a package." Maxine held the cigarette in her unaccustomed fingers. Her eyes were on his face. "You said you thought you felt we'd met before?"
So it seemed that it was always of her he thought of Maxine de Renzie! And I, of all people in the world, was to help him, with her. As I thought of this task he'd set me, and of all it meant, it appeared more and more incredible that he should have had the heart to ask such a thing of me. But it "meant more than his life." And I would do the thing, if it could be done, because of my pride.
He said he hadn't been over to see her act, as it was too far away, and he was afraid when he wasn't too busy, he was too lazy." "He said so to you, of course. But when he spends Saturday to Monday at Folkestone with the godmother who's going to leave him her money, how easy to slip over the Channel to the fair Maxine, without anyone being the wiser."
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