Two boys strolled past him. They were students and they were talking about books. Their clothes were not well pressed and they were obviously thinking about technicalities. Another boy went by; thin, his hair uncut, looking straight before him. Several Italian sweethearts, laughing, holding hands, walked up and down. Carol watched them with indifference. Two more boys passed, close together. One of them was handsome. They laughed musically, and while Carol could hear only a fragment of their conversation, it made him lonely. Several young fellows with polo shirts under their coats approached him; but he was scornful. “Trade! Commercializing those wretches!”—He flicked it out of his mind with arrogance.
The moon undressed over the University. It was slender, strong and white. Carol had seen a boy like that one time—slim and white and very strong. Carol made his own standards when he had been hurt enough. The moon was a boy, dancing for him. Tears were in Carol’s eyes and he wiped them away austerely. Still the moon danced before him. There was an animal cry in his throat, but he would not let it out. He arose and left the park, went to a telephone booth and called Deane. While he talked, he held the back of his neck tightly.
“Hello, Deane. Would it be imposing on you if I came over again for a few minutes?—just for a few minutes before I go to my hotel?”
Deane was a woman, too, and she felt the quality of hysteria in his voice.
“Of course you can. I’ll be so glad to see you, Carol.” “Right away,” he said, and hung up. For a long time he stood there, staring blankly at the mouthpiece while his child-mind spun blankly round its core.
Deane returned to the living room, sat down beside Martin and lit a cigarette.
“Jesus Christ!” said Martin, looking at her.
The phone rang again.
“Jesus Christ!” he repeated.
This time it was Roberts. He asked Deane (rather pleadingly, she thought) if she would see him.