On the low coffee table in front of Deane was a bowl of yellow roses. She had broken off one of the blossoms and was slowly, abstractedly pulling it to pieces. Listlessly she allowed the golden petals to fall to the floor.
“Why didn’t you tell me of Drew’s love letter earlier, Martin?” she asked.
“It was an invitation,” he answered. “I shouldn’t have shown it at all.”
Deane lit a cigarette nervously.
“But what did you do?—I mean—oh!” she cried out, hiding her face in her hands.
Martin shook his head but did not speak.
“And now,” continued Deane, “you insist on meeting him in the Bowery.”
“Yes,” Martin nodded.
“But it isn’t like Drew to go to such a terrible place. Why did you agree to such a rendezvous?”
“I don’t know, except that he sounded sincere and almost desperate over the phone.”