“Why did you tell me that?” asked Martin rapidly. He tried to quiet himself, but he bit his lip and looked at Drew rather wildly. “I understand death. I too have died. I too have seen intimate death.” The phosphorus shone again in his eyes. “Cowardly remark!” he said under his breath.
The adviser seemed to draw within himself, growing even more pale. He spoke sarcastically.
“Do you mean that you, too, Martin, have lost a husband?”
Martin glanced again at Drew who was standing motionless, expressionless, then back at Roberts. He could scarcely move his lips.
“I’m going home,” he said. “Goodnight, Drew. And goodnight, Roberts.”
“Goodnight,” Drew answered, holding out his hand to detain the adviser who was automatically following. “Goodnight, Martin,” Drew called after him again. Then, “Roberts!” he whispered uneasily, still holding his friend’s arm. “You don’t have even the foundation! Won’t you be sensible?”
Deane Idara was standing at the door. Martin’s shadow fell across her face and they left the apartment. Outside, the air was high and pointed with light. Crisp new stars whizzed over them, brightening the street. Martin could feel her arm get tighter and tighter, and his own breath became heavier until in the darkness between corner-lamps he swung her round to him and kissed her cold little wet lips. With his arms around her and the feel of her lips becoming warmer under his, he whispered, “I’ll kill you. Oh, by God!—I’ll kill you, I love you so!” And then he kissed her again until he felt himself just going away as he had thought he would. Deane was pressing as tightly as she could against him, but her head seemed to fall back too loosely and Martin kept saying, “I’ll get a taxi, dear. I’ll get a cab.” He waved at several until one stopped, and after they had climbed inside he pulled Deane to him and asked, “Where are we going, dear?” She kissed him, and Martin could feel her breath on his cheek. The cab driver slumped down in his seat indifferently and lit a cigarette. “Where are we going, Deane?” Martin asked again.
“Not far,” she answered, nodding to him feverishly. “Tell him to drive up the street. It’s one sixty-nine....”
Her apartment was dim and motionless. A long window faced the line of city buildings. Martin and Deane stood before it, breathing the soundless air. In this black and white panorama he felt indistinct, separate from his identity. He had removed his topcoat and he imagined he could feel Deane’s skin against his, so tight was her black gown. They stood by the window, holding each other in a sensuous embrace of expectation—of change of clime. Then he thought of her stockings and her sacramental slippers. They were furiously beautiful and revealing against the rug. Martin put his hand within her blouse and held it there while she pressed closely to him. He unslipped a button, then another, and another. “I’ve buck fever, Deane,” he whispered hoarsely.
Deane shook her hair, her eyes blazing.