If he ever suspected any lack of finer fiber in Max, he put the thought away.
Max had new friends, new social obligations; his time was taken up.
Max, cigarette in hand, was coming across, under the ailanthus tree.
Max had roused at the sound of Le Moyne's voice, not to suspicion, of course, but to memory.
"I'm not absolutely useless where I am, you know, Max," he said.