“Thanks, old lady,” said Martin, dropping a coin in her hand. “And I’ll give you a wish.” For a moment she smiled, Martin thought rather shyly, regarding him with a strange, toothless understanding. He held the marigolds before him, sniffing occasionally as he hurried on.
When Deane saw him she wanted to cry; and taking the flowers, she fingered the little bouquet lovingly before laying it aside for a moment.
Martin sat down heavily on the divan.
“My God, I’m tired,” he said. “Tired and hungry. Why, I’m just as tired as when I left here. That seems like a long time ago.”
“Don’t let’s talk about it,” said Deane, sitting down beside him. Martin could feel each pulse beating from her wrist in time with his own blood. He put his head against her arm, letting the faint sound ring into his temples. He rested against her naturally, faithfully, as though returning from a voyage of centuries or death.
Deane added to this dream-like state, this swift advance of years to year. She felt the soft wash of logic crumbling within her, loved him without exception, and remained quiescent. She heard Martin’s breathing, felt an awakening, a weary happiness. A clear stream of words, unintelligible, fell through her hair....
Martin sat up.
“Did you sleep, too?” he asked.
“No,” answered Deane, smiling. “But I was very happy. You slept like a baby. Don’t you ever talk in your dreams?”
“I did have a dream,” declared Martin, now thoroughly awake. “I dreamt that I met you at the point where the world meets itself. We decided instantly that we loved each other and——”