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She always seemed inclined to be more or less vocal while Drene worked; her voice, if untrained, was untroubled. Her singing had never bothered Drene, nor, until the last few days, had he even particularly noticed her blithe trilling as a man a field, preoccupied, is scarcely aware of the wild birds' gay irrelevancy along the way.
It is not the Goal that changes; only our intelligence concerning its existence and its immortality." Drene lay looking at him: "You never knew pain real pain, did you? The world never ended for you, did it?" "In one manner or another we all must be reborn before we can progress." "That is a cant phrase." "No; there's truth under the cant.
And it's all true all true what we believed as little boys." He looked up at Graylock, then closed his eyes with the shadow of a smile in them. "Good-bye Jack," he whispered. Graylock's mouth quivered, his lips moved in speech; and perhaps Drene heard and understood, for he opened his eyes and looked once more at his boyhood friend.
It looks like a thunder-storm in the west." He pulled up a chair and sprawled on it, wiping his grave features with a damp handkerchief. "Drene," he said, "a philanthropic guy of sorts wants to add a chapel to the church at Shallow Brook, Long Island. We've pinched the job. Can you do an altar piece?" "What sort?" "They want a Virgin. It's to be called the Chapel of the Annunciation.
Well, I I'm so inclined, I fancy." "You'd be content to see that girl marry a dog like that?" "I did not say so. I am no judge of men. No man knows enough to condemn souls." Drene looked at him: "Well, I'll tell you something. I know enough to do it. I had rather damn my soul and hers, too than see her marry the man you have named. It would be worth it to me."
He said: "To kill you would be like opening the cell door for a lifer. You know what you are while you're alive; maybe you'd forget if you were dead. He ceased, fiddling absently with the dull-colored weapon on his knee; and for a while they remained silent, not looking at each other. And when Drene spoke again he was still intent upon the automatic.
You change into something, don't you? What happens to you, petite Cigale?" "When?" "When the sunshine is turned off and the snow comes." "I don't know, Mr. Drene." She broke her chocolate cake into halves and laid one on his knee. "Thanks for further temptation," he said grimly. "You are welcome. It's good, isn't it?" "Excellent. Adam liked the apple, too. But it raised hell with him."
After a moment or two she rose, picked up her hat, went to the glass and pinned it on, then strolled slowly back, drawing on her gloves. "It's five o'clock, you know, Drene." "Yes, certainly." "Do you want me to-morrow?" "Yes. Yes, of course." "You are not offended?" He did not answer. She came up to him and repeated the question in a childishly anxious voice that was a trifle too humble.
Drene's sick brain ached with the problem day and night. In November the snow fell. Drene had not been out except in imagination.
Drene looked up, slowly: "What did you say?" "I said that I'd clean out your automatic for you to-night if you wish.... It can be an accident or not, just as you say." "Where?" "In my own rooms if it is to be an accident." "Do you offer " "Yes; if you'll marry her afterwards. If you say you will I'll take your word." "And then you'll be out of your misery, you damned coward!"
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