When she brought in the feast Martin jumped up to help her with the tray. He could scarcely wait to taste the coffee.
“It’s perfect,” he said. “And how did you fix the eggs?”
“I beat them up with a little milk before putting them in the pan.”
“They’re wonderful,” he repeated. “Let’s make it a real feast. What do you say we wait up until dawn. There will be many colors and shapes in the clouds from this window.” He pointed to where the late moon, a dull, inverted sickle, was shining in the east. “I can put my hand outside the window and almost touch Europe, Deane,” he said.
“I don’t want Europe,” Deane said huskily. Her face seemed a little drawn as she watched him, her eyes half closing and unclosing.
Martin, noting the expression on her face, felt a kind of loving in his heart which he had never known before.
“Sweet little maniac,” he said gently, and petted and caressed her. The sedative movement of his hands, which he worked most carefully, so as not to excite the blood or open the tiny nerves about her spine soon quieted Deane and she lay in his arms. “I’m going to tell you some stories,” he said, rubbing his cool cheek against hers. “And later, we’ll watch the dawn come up over Europe.”
It was midnight. The last light had been extinguished in the giant buildings and only the raw sky and the face of the radio brought shadow into the room. Deane rested on the divan, her eyes on Martin who sat crosslegged on the floor in front of her. Suddenly, he leaned forward.
“This is a magical room, Deane, and this is a magical night. In older times, in an ancient time, there was a beautiful Princess—the loveliest in all the world. Arrogant Princes with long gleaming swords and many dragons to their credit wooed her. But she was unresponsive.