“Have you no answer?” he asked.
“Of course not.” Deane’s moist, red lips closed tightly.
Roberts picked up a spoon and tapped it nervously on the table.
“I have always respected your antagonism, Deane, but I am somewhat unprepared, just now, to face a personal issue. By coöperating with me, I feel that we can bring about some satisfactory adjustment on the part of Martin that will give him success and happiness.” The adviser waited, quiet and intent.
Deane’s eyes paled, the color fading into clearness. She looked at Roberts abstractedly. To her it seemed that an unhealthy whiteness moved now under his skin. His handsome face seemed trembling, disintegrating and forming anew, misshapen under the pressure of his mind. His cheeks appeared alive with white nerve roots, moving uncertainly, like microscopic serpents. The lens of Deane’s eyes penetrated through flesh into the dark coils of blood, visualizing curiously the spiraling, pallid germ.
Roberts jerked in his chair. He leaned sideways, holding to the table. His cuff brushed a tumbler and a little of the water spilled upon the cloth.
“Deane!” He spoke sharply. “What are you looking at?”
Her eyes grew deeper, lost their transparency.
“I was wondering.”
Roberts’ voice trembled. His words were insecure.