Martin could hear a strange, sobbing chuckle.
“It’s all right,” he repeated. “And Deane wants you to come, too.” Martin could see Deane incline her head gently. It was a gesture he loved and of which he was jealous. After he left the phone they sat for some minutes without speaking. Then Martin shook his head. “Jesus Christ!” he said once more.
He got up and went into the kitchen to mix the highballs. Before he had finished he heard Deane open the door and knew that it was Carol. The boy stepped across his brain—walked cozeningly, with his side-weave and his red, disarranged face. Then Martin heard Roberts. He felt the unreliable smile—saw the white, fanatical face. He felt the pressure of entering the room and held his fingers against the sides of his head. The two figures with Deane were waiting for him.... Carol, looking for a lost doll.... Roberts, handsome, leprous, searching for the impossible.... Martin waited until the introductions were over, then walked into the living room with the drinks. He placed the tray of highballs on a table.
Roberts got out of his chair at once and went to him, holding out his hand with an intense movement which Martin accepted quietly.
“You’re looking well again, Martin,” said the adviser. “And I’m glad to find it so.” He turned halfway to Deane with a strained smile. “Isn’t it splendid, Deane?”
She returned the smile, nodding her head and Martin broke in swiftly.
“I fell into a job, Roberts—free lance work that turned regular. Perhaps my relief shows in my appearance.”
“Where is the job?” asked Roberts quickly, looking concerned.
“Downtown,” said Martin, a vague expression in his eyes.