“I talked with your employer, Mr. Jackson,” he said. “The conversation, I must say, was disappointing. He told me frankly that your work of late had been lax.” Roberts cleared his throat. “I’ve been somewhat afraid of that. You can’t burn the candle at both ends, Martin. The social and the economic won’t mix.”
“Roberts—save your platitudes for a darker night!” Martin was glaring at him. “So that was really it! You intimated as much at one time.”
Roberts went over to him, touching the back of Martin’s hand with indescribable tenderness.
“Are you tired enough now, my friend, to have a drink with the one man in the world who sees you in your entirety?” he asked.
“Yes. I’ll drink,” said Martin wearily, leaning back in a chair and closing his eyes. He took the glass from Roberts, holding it loosely, and drank from it without thinking.
Roberts now put his hand on Martin’s head.
“I have given my time to place you,” he said gently. “You would not rebuke me for that.”
Martin felt the lassitude of the whisky, of the words; yet some fundamental stroke of his own blood kept him from acceptance. He seemed to hear a bold, ancestral cry, and sat straighter.
“You’re modern, Roberts. You have a modern sword.”
“I’ve never hurt you, Martin. I’ve tried to help.”