“I forgive myself and you,” repeated Martin.
Roberts did not hear, or hearing, did not understand. A strong impression of brotherhood made his hands tremble. A feeling of careless happiness exhilarated him. The vision grew clearer and his heart tried gallantly to keep pace with his mind’s picture of the Affinities, striding hand in hand against the foolish tide of intolerance and misunderstanding. He took Martin’s arm and started down the street, a new freedom in his eyes.
“We are going to have dinner together to-night, Martin.”
“I’m sorry, Roberts, but I have an engagement.”
Roberts laughed.
“Oh, you’ll come, all right!” He swung on to Martin’s arm. “We’ll have the most glorious dinner of our lives. We’ll put the table by the radio and have our sherry with Bach—yes, with Bach. But you may have Delius with your Chablis.” He shook his finger in Martin’s face and laughed again. “I warn you, however, our Benedictine will call for Wagner! The renegade!—The impious Pretender! We’ll swing his stomach like a bell over our Benedictine.”
Martin’s cheeks were sucked in. He seemed ready to laugh but his eyes were shaded.
Roberts, still chuckling, glanced at him carelessly in his merriment and was astonished.
“Martin!” he cried.
“I’m sorry. Some other time I’d like to. But to-night, I can’t come.”