“Issue?” asked Deane, frowning a little.
“Yes, Deane,” went on Carol. “It’s Martin and you. It is domestic suicide. I watch you clutch this insane illusion of love—bemused by carnal appetite. Lost on the horizon of flesh, your perspective becomes astigmatic. Drowned in beast’s blood, you deliberately blind yourself to an obvious incompatibility. It is my duty to my strength, my life, my God, to break this union.” He let his head rest against the wall for a moment, hypnotized by the magnificence of his words.
Deane was now frankly amazed. Where did these words come from? They were brilliant, hateful words. Carol was incapable of such expression. She hunted through her memory for the explanation. Then she recalled Martin’s analogy of the parrot. Carol had heard the words and had remembered them. Where had he heard them? No one knew Martin—ah! The good friend Roberts. That sounded like Roberts. That was Roberts.
She watched Carol—his eyes closed, three fingers on his holder. Retentiveness—that was it. Carol, the parrot. Retentiveness. Carol did not know what had broken from his memory. Deane knew that he believed it was himself speaking. She began to fear Roberts. Fear him so much that she forgot Carol was with her.
Carol squinted and nodded his head approvingly. That had done it. His great understanding had brought Deane to her senses. Her face showed it—pale, constricted. Carol cocked his flat, moist hands at her in sympathy.
“I know it’s hard,” he said, reaching womanishly toward her.
Deane did not move away from him, but she had an odd feeling. Once, she had had a dream that had given her the same sensation. She dreamed that in an adventurous moment she had descended to the bottom of the ocean, there to play with the mermaids, look at the starfish, and perhaps start a flirtation, harmless or otherwise, with friendly old Poseidon. She had dropped softly to the sands of the sea and it was more beautiful than she had expected. The water was the kind of blue pretty girls like in nightgowns. It was cool and restful and it felt good around her legs and her waist. She walked slowly and gracefully over the white sand and through the blue water. At last she saw a rock, half-embedded in moss; and there, holding it tightly, was her starfish. She knelt down to look at it. It was a large one of delicate yellow—not at all like those dried, smelly things she had studied at school. It was yellow, and it clung to the green moss. It seemed to be in love; but it was quiet. Deane knew it was asleep when she looked closer. Its crisp points were symmetrical and straight. Deane blushed, and through the twilight blue of the water the color of her cheeks was attractive to King Poseidon who had been peeking at her through a wall of seaweed. He was infatuated. She was different from Amphitrite. He loved Amphitrite—her long green hair, her white face and jeweled hips. Nevertheless, he wanted to kiss this strange woman. He wanted to kiss the color in her cheeks and touch her. But King Poseidon shook his head. Amphitrite could be very difficult if she became angry. Confound these appetites for rare and inedible dishes! Poseidon smiled though, a boyish, sheepish, proud smile. He had appetites. He was getting to be a little gray; and still, he had appetites. He looked at Deane once more, wistfully, and took his appetites to Amphitrite.
Amphitrite combed his beard. Poseidon looked at her and poked his finger at her and winked. She regarded him suspiciously, but when she saw the expression in his eyes something happened to her. Through the darkening blue her white cheeks softened, became pink and sent out threads of coral. Poseidon shook his head in wonderment and happiness. It was just what a man wanted. That was all. The memory of Deane faded from him as Amphitrite, her face still coral, gently removed his crown.
As the water became darker, Deane’s dream became less happy. She couldn’t compete with green hair, a white face and those commanding, jeweled hips. She was despondent. She didn’t want King Poseidon. She wanted the earth again and stars and a warm, comfortable hand. It was the didactic part of her spoiling a beautiful dream.