“‘What have we to do with that?’” he repeated. “Nothing, Deane. Nothing can touch us now. But first I have to go from you. I don’t know for how long, or how far. It’s part of the scheme. And remember, I didn’t build it; but I know the undertows, the ebb tides and the breakers. There is a distant sun on our horizon, and I won’t go into happiness or unhappiness until it’s reached. Don’t you think I’ll miss those lights?” He pointed out of the window. “But I’ll have stars around that will bring this room to me. I’m a dreamer, and they have luck. So forget the dull months or the aching ones. Give my picture a bath once a day until it’s white; and I’ll stay that way.” Martin’s voice broke and he stood up. “I can’t say ‘Good-bye, Mrs. Smith—’ and bow and strain until my sharp, black coat sticks out, nor turn and smile ‘It’s been a pleasant afternoon—I’ll call you soon.’”[5] His voice became harsh. “These fools’ farewells and wet good-byes are as thick and viscous as a glue pot, Deane. Sentiment rises in me easily and I’m ashamed that my hand seems blurred against the dress that covers your knee. That’s why I curse such weakness and yearn to leave my beloved with my hat over my nose, yelling blasphemously at a wall-eyed, pot-bellied moon.”
“You sound like a drunken Irish tenor,” exclaimed Deane, covering her celibate pain at once with the same quick irony.
“By God, I _am_ drunk!” cried Martin. “Drunk on your hair and the moisture of your lips and the way you look at me. Drunk with hatred because I won’t see them or taste them again until the same dark wind that takes me away brings me back.”
A wraith-like smile hovered on Deane’s lips.
“The wind that brings you home, Martin, won’t be dark. It will be light and gentle and perhaps will carry a few white clouds on its back.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I want it dark and heavy and raging. I want it so fierce it will bring me home much faster.”
“Let me have it my way, Martin,” she urged softly. “I want it gentle so that no part of you will be hurt. I’ve never been patient about most things; but I will be—about this.” Deane spoke so tenderly that the cool night wind stopped blowing, and a moment of such stillness ensued that all outside was hidden—all sound, all waves of sound and color—everything was hidden.