Deane looked at him in amazement.
“You?” she cried. “Watch you?”
Roberts, observing her, sat straighter, became more haughty.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “He never looked that way at me. And I’m mad because of necessity and not an empty wish! It’s the bone of me—it’s my flesh and the rancor of centuries!” He stood up, trembling.
“Drew!” he called commandingly. He was white, beautiful and Satanic in his rage.
Drew started, looked around at him and the two young men stepped nearer.
“Roberts!” cried Drew in consternation.
But the adviser merely waved his hand.
“Roberts!” said Martin slowly. His eyes half closed, and in the space where the iris showed came a harsh light as if misdirected robots were moving behind the lashes. His face, still burned by the sea, became intent. It was as though he were concentrating upon a floating object. Motile, sensitive lines drew around the corners of his eyes and turned from rust to white. Under this stare, Roberts faltered in his attitude of severity; and wheeling suddenly, without excuse, his hands half out, walked swiftly across the room to the buffet where he stood, leaning one arm upon it.