“Martin,” continued the adviser, “does not appreciate the undercurrent of this danger. It is for this reason—for this one reason I begged you to see me.”
“Yes,” Deane repeated, feeling her skin tighten as it does under a great and hopeless fear.
“I have but one thought in mind—” Roberts proceeded, “Martin’s future. His temperament is one that will not adjust itself to the inevitable.”
Deane’s hand closed over her bag. A swift feeling of revulsion changed as quickly to one of anger.
“The inevitable?” she asked, controlling her voice.
“Yes,” said Roberts. “The inevitable routine of this world. I have it on good authority that he is about to lose his job at Miller’s Typographical. You know his history. He came to me a transient—a common seaman. I found him a good job. I made contacts for him in this respect which he used, or rather abused, with an amazing recklessness. I do not understand his lack of appreciation. But these things are unimportant. Regardless of his inconsideration, I feel that there is definitely something worth saving.”
“That’s good of you, Roberts,” said Deane, inclining her head a little, the large hat shading her eyes. “Martin would be pleased to know that you consider his regeneration a possibility.”
Roberts’ lips tightened at her irony. His fingers moved constantly over the white tablecloth, touching a cup—a spoon——
“I appeal to you, Deane,” he said finally. “I recognize your influence over him.”
She remained silent.