The old master stared at him. His eyes seemed flaked with salt and he brushed one rough hand across them.
Martin took Deane’s arm once more.
“Good-by, sir. A good trip, sir,” he said, pulling Deane along. But the old master just kept staring as the two walked away.
“Why did he look like that?” Deane whispered, her own eyes full of tears.
“That ship went down, honey—and the master, also,” answered Martin.
On the next corner, standing in an erect, unnatural posture, was a man with a full red beard. In one hand the man held a comb which occasionally he used on his chin with a gesture at once contemptuous and desperate. In the other hand there was a ragged paper upon which something was written—and this, he wore as though it were a part of him. When any passed too close he would draw back the manuscript, hastily covering the words, the beer stains and perhaps tears with his palm. His bold chin under its red blanket would jut angrily; he would hunch his shoulders, and his eyes, which were a little blurred, would narrow in agony and hatred. Martin, ashamed for all mankind that it had shamed this artist and his work, walked by with an impassive glance, understanding full well the torment of beauty which must be held within itself. But the man, sensing some kinship within Martin, or feeling some belligerent contempt, held out to him the sheaf of paper containing all the golden words born of himself in adoration, hunger and distrust. His speech was rapid, barely articulate.
“Twenty-five cents, sir?” he called out mockingly. “A block of my heart for twenty-five cents!”
Deane pressed against Martin and he knew that she was frightened. He tried, without speaking, to tell her not to be, and walked on with a strolling deliberation, eyes ahead without expression, minimizing as far as possible the high chain of laughter behind them. He visualized the rotten teeth—the long hysteria——
And then they came upon a flower man, a small Sicilian with an olive skin and a charming, wistful face. He was standing by his little cart, his hands down by his side as though in a mild passion with his lot among the flowers. There were cornflowers and mignonette; crisp French marigolds and early cosmos. Deane made her choice.