“I wish you would understand.”
“I do understand.” Roberts held his finger in the air warningly. “Don’t let some transitory illusion make a fool of you, dear boy.”
“‘Transitory illusion?’” asked Martin absentmindedly. “It has a history and a future.”
“Deane Idara is a clever woman,” observed Roberts. “But you have a job.”
Martin smiled queerly.
“Doesn’t my job depend upon my work?” he asked.
Roberts stopped abruptly and faced him.
“I can tolerate rudeness, but not unkindness,” he declared with dignity.
Martin took the other by his arm.
“I want to be as good a friend as you’ve been to me, Roberts,” he said, trying to speak calmly. “Every contact, economic or social that I have, you’ve made for me. I’d not be myself if I were unappreciative. That’s not it alone, though. We have many things together—food—and music—isolate cynicisms—and all these have their place. You understand. You know, also, that even with the best of friends, sometimes a path divides. Certain diversions, certain loves, are found impossible in common.”