Martin climbed out of bed, put on his robe and stood before the consulting psychiatrist.
“You understand.”
“You have been a child,” said the physician sternly.
“You understand,” repeated Martin.
The psychiatrist took firm hold of his shoulders. There were furious lights about the man—not understanding; merely curiosity and hatred for something unintelligible. He tightened his grasp on Martin’s shoulders, shook his head angrily and stormed out of the room. But the younger doctor, with all the suns between his eyes, observed in formula Martin’s pulse and all the rest of it, dismissing his patient with a friendly, sympathetic nod as soon as he could.
When Martin left the hospital it was snowing. The medication had destroyed his orientation. He leaned against the wall of the building for a moment, then tried to walk straight while he looked for a taxi.
Inside the cab he wrapped his coat about him and held his ankles from the cold air. Sick from the drugs and weak from lack of food, he thought once more of Deane and smiled. He was tired, but he had won.
When he arrived at the apartment he stopped just inside the door. There was a woman sitting in a chair. Who was she? Where was Deane? Was this woman alive? For her face was pale, and her eyes, too large, too dark, seemed to have lost all comprehension.
“What is wrong?” he asked excitedly. “What is it?”
Deane did not answer but sank down in her chair, covering her face with hands that trembled.