Deane made an impatient gesture.
“He had no reason to think that.”
“Perhaps he did,” said Martin thoughtfully. “Perhaps he had a combination of reasons. First of all, I took no pains to hide my interest in him. Perhaps he misunderstood the motive. And then, there are gestures and expressions that are open to suspicion. The line of demarcation in such friendships seems variable. Roberts wanted me to belong to his group, and whether the misconstruction was artificial or genuine, he arrived at a conclusion. Tell me what you know about him, Deane.” He turned to her impulsively.
“Then I must tell you of his mother, Martin. She was as luxuriant as himself and more. She was pure crystal with the same high febrile cheeks, but an attitude so strong that I always felt his should be less. I’m sure though, that no one could touch her but himself—at least, I felt she swept along in an invulnerable carriage of glass, indifferent to any but her son. William Roberts finds his coloring from her, and his bearing, and his remarkable beauty; for,” Deane observed in reminiscence, “he wears a tie or scarf the way she wore her pearls, as though they were a part of her throat. They were glorious pearls—a small dark strand with a diseased, slow luster, indistinct in tone, but so inseparable from her body that when her skin assumed the radiance we see in Roberts, they followed her as though they loved her. What her husband meant to her before his death seemed of little importance; for her life, so obviously, was contained in Roberts’ glance, his frown, or contradictory expression. These two were more like complementary figurants intent upon each other in their mutual demand than like a mother and son. That he adored her showed in every action—from the way he placed her shawl—” Deane looked at Martin briefly, “from the gentle manner with which he drew her shawl over her exquisite, proud shoulders (it was like a caress!) to his affectionate concern over trivialities—her slightest expression, or even guarded undertones that no one knew except themselves. Once, I saw them when he became aware of a woman speaking—I knew it was without intent—and then I saw his mother’s strength. She never moved—no line of her face changed; but everything in the room became alive and hard. To me, it seemed that the tender pearls around her throat turned into steel. The woman who had been speaking with Roberts became confused, faltered, and he seemed ready to rise from his chair. But at this, his mother smiled faintly and spoke graciously to the other woman. It was all right, apparently; but I was chilled and felt ever so glad when the party broke up. Shortly after that, Martin, the mother died, and I am sure that part of Roberts went with her.” Deane was speaking intensely, with a fixed, unusual look toward Martin which he accepted steadily. Since he would not speak, she made a curious remark. “This, you knew, Martin—not the way I told it; but you knew.”
“Yes,” he answered. “Yes, I knew.” He turned from her, staring out of the window into the darkness.
The doorbell rang.
“It’s Drew,” said Deane. “No one else would come here at this time——unless——” she looked at Martin, and for a moment seemed to be less assured. Then she lifted her head. “No! He wouldn’t—Roberts wouldn’t dare! I’d better answer.”
Drew entered and kissed Deane lightly on the cheek.
“You’re lovely,” he said, holding her arm affectionately and extending his left hand to Martin who, embarrassed, knew of nothing but to squeeze the delicate, closed fingers.
Drew smiled faintly and sat down, crossing his slender legs.