The older woman called the dog to her. She put her arm around him and called him “Willie.” It was not the word. It was her eyes, and her mouth, and the way her hands worked. “It is an indictment of womanhood,” thought Martin. The woman looked at him; and seeing him stand so cold and full of hatred, she held the dog tighter. She held his fur and his body tighter; but Willie had gone. He was standing by a campfire. His hair was singed and there was a red line across his shoulders. His eyes were tired and glad with dreams.
Every woman feels biological change. It is her first lesson and her last. Although she often misinterprets her intuitive strength, she possesses it. This woman looked at Willie. She could not smell the singed hair nor see the red line; but she did see his eyes. A sadness, a real sorrow was in her. She turned from the dog to Martin who stood contemptuous and erect, and she turned away.
“Now am I right,” Martin asked himself, observing in spite of his anger this dark woman’s passion, “to condemn the ovary that cries out for its sister?—and absolve by ritual the formulated counterpart in man?” He stood there, pondering in this procession of new thought. “And am I wrong, that I can’t feel the love that topples ethics, puts wire in soft fingers with one breath!... Why can’t I feel the music of one breast upon another? And why do I call such music ‘black,’ when I might taste much softer lips than mine upon much softer lips?... These dismal cries—two sheer stockings ripped from their garters and one frightened voice saying, ‘God! Make it straight with me!’—while the other, frantically tries syntheses and fluctuating pose....” Martin watched the slender clouds beyond the black roofs for a moment, then went below.
Martin was drowsing on the couch in his room when there was a rap at the door which he had left open. He glanced up sleepily. Roberts was standing there, an attempted smile only accentuating his moroseness.
“Come on in,” said Martin cordially, sitting up. “Have a chair. That one’s the most comfortable.” He pointed to the rocker.
“Damn comfort,” replied Roberts, nevertheless sitting down. He was thinner. There was an harassed expression on his face which Martin had never seen before. “I dare say you’re surprised at my coming here,” he continued.
“No,” said Martin, frankly good-humored. “And I’m glad to see you.”
The adviser waved the words away.
“Don’t be social, in heaven’s name. It isn’t in your make-up. And if you’re not surprised, I am, considering the attitude you’ve taken toward me lately.”
Martin laughed, stood up and stretched and offered him a cigarette.