Without answering, Martin walked with him to the couch where the young man and his companion were sitting.
“I want you both to know Martin,” said Roberts. “He was just going home on account of you. I wonder what he meant, Deane,” he continued, ignoring the young man who stood up, smiling unconcernedly. “What did he mean, Drew?” he asked, this time of the man; and without waiting for an answer, sat down rather sulkily, peering from under his eyelids at Deane as though he was displeased, for Martin and Drew had moved a short distance away from the divan and had begun to talk together.
Deane looked at Roberts with understanding, her brilliant lips open, her cool, dark eyes filled with indulgence.
“Your friend looks interesting enough,” she said. “Why does he upset you? Isn’t he your protegé? Dear Ella,” she glanced toward the hostess, “intimated as much.”
“Damn her fat tongue,” said Roberts. “But,” he continued wearily, “I wish he were, Deane. I’m part of him and he doesn’t know it—or pretends not to. I gave him a rotten job. A job full of grit and lead and ashes and he won’t—he won’t——”
Deane seemed a little contemptuous.
“No?”
Roberts shook his beautiful head and turned away despairingly.
“A young girl in her first romance,” said Deane, speaking now with an undertone of anger.
“You only think me so,” went on the adviser, still desperate. “But I’ve waited for this a thousand years and it goes in one bleak night to my one dear friend,” he looked up at Drew who was still standing before Martin, “or,” he ended bitterly, glancing once more at the woman beside him, “to you. I tell you, I know him, Deane. I saw it in his eyes. He was watching you so. I never saw him watch me that way. Never!”