Deane’s face was white and she spoke quietly, as though faint.
“I believe you enjoyed it. How can you be so impersonal?”
Martin put his chin in his hands. How could two people, close in passion, united in mind, lapse into these subtle quarrels? There was no basis. The quarrel was an excuse for something deeper.
Analyzing himself, Martin tried to find the fault within him. Coldly, impersonally, he reviewed the scene, not sparing himself in any way. It was impossible. Deane had subtly forced the argument. Deeply, actually, she had been the aggressor. Martin accepted this with no pleasure. Deane would not intentionally wound him. Not intentionally. The phrase gathered meaning. Unconsciously she had created the picture. Why? Nothing on the surface. Nothing of which she was conscious. Rather, some deep-seated demand for pain. Pain for herself and for him. A hunger to wound and be wounded. Martin shook his head helplessly. From his chair he could see Deane sitting quietly serene, apparently indifferent. No. It was a simulated indifference. A strange play with no tenable motive. She must be as aware of the chasm between them as he. Out of this isolation she was drawing something. Something that fed her. It was inexplicable to Martin, for Deane was not a tyrant. She was, however, feminine. And now, the roots of all womanhood shone grimly through. Martin wondered, hesitated, and spoke.
“Deane, are you well? I mean,” he continued, “is it the time of the moon, you know?”
Deane was casual.
“Yes, Martin.” Her voice was tolerant.
“Well, then,” he said, “I should have been more considerate.”
“Don’t be impossible,” Deane exclaimed. “My condition has nothing at all to do with our discussion.”