Kirk sprang up.
"You're just who I wanted to see," he said; "and I thought you might be wanting to take a walk in the garden, early."
"You thought right."
They had come toward each other around the pool's rim, and met now at the cracked stone bench where two paths joined. Kirk put his hand through Martin's arm. He always rather liked to touch people while he talked to them, to be sure that they remained a reality and would not slip away before he had finished what he wanted to say.
"What brings you out so early, when you only fetched port last night?" Martin inquired, in his dry voice.
"I wanted to talk to you," Kirk said, "about that song."
"What, about the hat?"
"No, not that one. The birthday one about the roses. You see, the Maestro gave it to me on my birthday, because he said he thought you didn't need it any more. But you're here, and you do. It's your song, and I oughtn't to have it. So I came to give it back to you," said Kirk.
