“Yes,” answered Martin, studied and frowning. “Lovely.”
Deane reached over impulsively and laid her hand on Drew’s.
“Won’t you put it out, darling?” she pleaded. “I hate to insist, but it gives me a feeling of——”
“Of apprehension,” supplied Drew, rising slowly and slowly crossing the room to the open window. He tossed out the half-smoked cigarette, then returned, partly on his tiptoes.
“I wish you wouldn’t smoke like this,” said Deane quite urgently. “It gives you bad dreams. You hate yourself, too.”
Drew raised his hand with a listless movement.
“Later—perhaps. But now everything is very sweet.” He smiled dreamily. “This clarity, after my extreme confusion, forgives an old sin. An image!—memories unfolding that bring a figure more alive than you.... A splendid figure.... Burning with clandestine color.... Unfaithful!... He tried, though, more than I....” Drew leaned back again, resting his head against the chair. His lips were partly open and there was a flush of pleasure upon the high oval of his cheek.
Deane arose without a word and went into the kitchen. Martin imagined that she was making coffee. As the aroma came into the living room, Drew opened his eyes, looked at Martin and shivered.
“A good awakening,” he said, smiling nervously.
“Yes,” said Martin. “The cigarettes are mild.”