Rage, a positive hatred, shook the adviser. Words of reproach and anger were about to be spoken when he was deterred by the same quality in Martin’s face that had quieted him before. This time, even in his shame, he tried to analyze the reason—to connect and precipitate Martin’s features into the symbol that stopped his fury. He felt that it was an earth-impression—a breath of old winds—a shade of substratum clay—a distillation neither spatial nor timely. He saw Martin’s face in retrospect as the outline of a rising mountain crag, lonely within the moon; or as the shaping pseudopods of cloud that are confusing in their similarity to some ancient clot of memory.
But Roberts was not easily defeated. He spoke evenly.
“We must have dinner together to-night.”
“I have an engagement,” repeated Martin.
“An engagement! Our dinner is important.”
“My engagement is the kind you can’t break.”
“Really!” A supercilious expression flitted across Roberts’ face and his one sharp word carried an air of volubility.
Martin, looking straight ahead, made one more effort.
“Won’t you walk down this way with me?” he asked.
“But this is a special dinner,” protested Roberts, following him.