"A lamp will be better," said Mr. Warlock.
He left the room and Martin sat there, in the darkness, haunted by he knew not what anticipations. The light was brought, they drew closer together, sitting in the little glossy pool, the room pitch dark around them.
"Well, Martin," at last Mr. Warlock said, "I want to hear so many things. Our first time together alone."
"There isn't very much," Martin tried to speak naturally and carelessly. "I wrote about most things in my letters. Pretty rotten letters I'm afraid." He laughed.
"And now—what do you intend to do now?"
"Oh, I don't know—Look around for a bit."
There was another long pause. Then Mr. Warlock began again. "When I ask about your life, my boy, I don't mean where you've lived, how you've earned your living—I do know all that—you've been very good about writing. But your real life, what you've been thinking about things, how you feel about everything ..."
"Well, father—I don't know. One hadn't much time for thinking, you know. No one did much thinking in Rio. When I was in the Bermudas there was a fellow ..."
"Yes, but tell me about yourself."
Then, with a desperate effort, he broke out: