Deane sat quietly, watching Martin. There was now a look of contempt upon his face. It formed about the fine cheeklines, which by themselves seemed to curl until the face solidified and grew articulate with sour flutes of madness. He took a step toward Roberts and Drew caught him by the arm.
“What is it, Martin?” he asked. “In heaven’s name, don’t look that way! Be careful! Everyone is watching you. Stay here with us!”
Abruptly, Martin sat down with Deane, so close that she could feel him tremble. She looked up quickly at Drew, who nodded, and with a brief, inscrutable smile, left them and went to Roberts.
As he waited for Roberts to speak, there was a tactfulness and grace about him which the adviser could not evade.
“Drew,” he said at last, “listen to me. It’s dreadful.” He paused to look steadily at his friend. “I can’t work without thinking about him. I can’t eat. It’s a damnable obsession! And to think!—with such a shameful lad!”
Drew appeared listless.
“Is that the word, Roberts?”
“It’s the smallest I can think of.”
Drew took a purple flagon containing a cordial from the buffet, holding it so that he might find its color from the room’s dim light.