“Buy me the marigolds,” she asked of Martin. “You remember?—they were your first gift to me.”
The little olive gentleman bowed and smiled; and carefully selecting the freshest marigolds from his stock, twisted a strip of tinfoil around their stems before handing them to Deane.
Shortly after they left him, Deane looked back. He was standing by his little cart, still smiling, his hands down by his side in gentle obsequiousness.
Touched deeply by this profound and infinite patience, Deane thought of all the things she had seen that day—one man with a phantom ship, one with a poem, and one—She glanced sideways at Martin, and suddenly, unnoticed by him, the tiny bunch of marigolds which she was clutching fell from her grasp....
Later, in the soft candlelight within the apartment, Martin sat on the arm of Deane’s chair, quietly twisting the ring upon his finger. The small red stone on its field of black looked at him speculatively. The tender perception which had been Deane’s all that evening now gave way to a definite and fearful prescience.
“What is it, darling?” she asked, for Martin had not spoken in some time.
“I love you,” he said simply.
“I love you, too. But what disturbs you, Martin?”
He avoided her eyes.
“It was only a dream,” he said at last. “But it has worried me. I dreamt I died and found myself at the crossroads of Heaven and Hell—there to make my decision as to which path I should walk.”