Carol shuffled uneasily.
“I did at first. You were mean. I nearly hated you.” He sat forward, well on the edge of his chair. “But I don’t now. I’m different now.”
“Not at all,” said Martin, shaking his head quite seriously. “You’ll feel the same at the last as you did at the first. I’m sure of it.”
“I won’t change, dear Martin. I think you’re God,” the boy answered solemnly.
Martin nodded. Through the insufficient light within the room, the bronze tints of his skin deepened.
“Perhaps I am,” he said.
“Please don’t joke,” said Carol. His voice had acquired a pathetic, pleading quality. “I mean you really are—to me.” He shifted his position so that he could not see Deane’s picture.
“She won’t bite,” said Martin bluntly.
Carol twisted his hands.
“Can’t you see it my way a little bit, Martin?” The boy spoke now with a definite urgency, his words forming an aggressive prayer. “Can’t you change some?”