He went uptown to the Relief Employment Station and stood in line again. Behind and before him, such pitiful neatness would formerly have brought the thought of laughter or poor tears. No more.
A counselor interviewed them quickly. There was a card on his desk marked MR. ROBERTS. Martin studied him with concentration, knowing that this man through whom he might be placed demanded understanding, subtle coyness and perhaps, beauty; for he saw a person hesitant in sex and yet requiring it; a man lurid of cheek, yet pale; a contradiction with a flush abnormal as its pallor. The look of Roberts was more theory than fact; although Martin thought, amusedly, that certainly this personage, most elegant, existed almost regally. The counselor’s eyebrows, alert and thin and dark, commanded all his face. His deep-set cheeks and bold, firm chin absolved too bright, too wide a pouting lower lip. His hair, compressed and black, cut strongly in his temples and took away the color from his eyes. “This masterpiece,” thought Martin, “should be done in platinum; with alabaster, ebony and careful points of gold.” And then, he found that he was next.
“Sit down,” he said. “Are you waiting for a ship?” His eyes opened wide, closed intimately, then opened wide again.
“No,” said Martin. “I want a job ashore.”
“No. I was never graduated. It was off and on.”
“I suppose because the electives interested me much more than the requisites.”
“A diploma is quite valuable in getting a job,” he said.
“I wasn’t trying to be rude,” said Martin, “but the situation appeared somewhat ridiculous.”
“I can well imagine,” answered Roberts, smiling back at him. “I wish everyone out of a job could develop the same sense of humor.”
“It isn’t a sense of humor,” replied Martin. “It’s a form of embarrassment. I used to see little girls act this way in school.”
“I didn’t mean that,” Martin added quickly.
“Of course not.” Roberts was thoughtful. His eyes had assumed a knowing look. His voice was unprofessional and the color in his cheeks had become more prominent. At last, he picked up a card. “What kind of work do you prefer?” he asked.
“That’s curious. One would think that a young man with your intelligence would——”
“I’m not intelligent,” he said. “I’m imaginative. Sometimes it gives the illusion of intelligence.” Then, slightly bewildered by his own statement, Martin reflected on this uncalled-for abstraction until he forgot where he was and sat absently, with an appearance so unusual that Roberts, who was watching him keenly, spoke one word half under his breath; and Martin, taken from his musing by the unexpected character of the exclamation, said sharply, “What was that?”