“I really can’t say, dear. But,” Carol’s eyes brightened, “It did have—” he waved the handkerchief, “what do you call it?—‘um-pah!’” Completely forgetful now of his surroundings, he pursed his lips into a curious form and began to sing in a rather wistful mood, “Ooh-ooh, woo-woo, me too,” his hand on his hip, his handkerchief still fluttering. Then he circled his left foot back of the right, followed up, and continued until he was moving gracefully across the room in time with the weird intonation. At last he seemed to fade into the hallway as though it were the wings of a theater; and the three in the room could hear the words float in long after he had disappeared—“Ooh-ooh, woo-woo, me too.”
Martin laughed without restraint and clapped his hands loudly. There was a gurgle of delight from the hall and Carol peeped around the doorway, his face aglow at such acclaim.
“Great!” continued Martin, as the young man came in beaming. “The best! The very best, Carol!” he went on, while the other, breathless, sat down and touched the handkerchief to his forehead. Deane’s eyes still gleamed peculiarly; but Roberts had merely turned his face the other way.
Then suddenly, as though each wanted to convince the others that his own thoughts were spontaneous, they talked in animated sequence. They talked of music, and of tides, and of the government. Each word was a word—Roberts’, like a dark sword in a silver lake; Carol’s, like the hole in a fisherman’s net; and Martin’s and Deane’s, like clouds over a river.
In a short while, Roberts stood up.
“I must go,” he said gravely.
Carol got up also, and after a brief look at Martin, followed the adviser into another room to get his coat.
Outside there was a cool wind blowing. Carol led Roberts to Washington Square—an inexplicable impulse returning and behind the direction. The guards had raked the grass after the early snows. A pile of leaves burned slowly, and the soft flutter of pigeons beyond the firelight made the park seem homely and comfortable. On the icy concrete surrounding the fountain there were children with skates. Their flashing feet splintered the dark which lay under the moon, and around these romping figures the cool wind, blowing softly, held everything together.
Neither Carol nor Roberts noticed the pigeons or the children. They were watching their own hearts. Carol’s beat slowly, with a regular, bovine thump. Roberts’ beat quickly, irregularly, with acuity and despair. He was in such despair that he tried to find camaraderie within the boy beside him. His monologue pretended to be a conversation, but his bright words of indictment against Martin rolled across Carol’s porcine cheek and were reflected, turning in to himself, weighting his bitterness more heavily.