Soldiers Pay by William Faulkner Page A

the rector, saying, “Pardon me,” fetched a chair from the. hall. She leaned her thigh against the desk and her eyes (are they grey or blue or green?) met his yellow unabashed stare. She lowered her gaze and he remarked her pretty, self-conscious mouth. This is going to be easy, he thought. The rector placed the chair for her and she sat, and when the rector had taken his desk chair again, Jones resumed his own seat. How long her legs are, he thought, seeing her frail white dress shape to her short torso. She felt his bold examination and looked up.
    â€œSo Mr. Jones is married,” she remarked. She did something to her eyes and it seemed to Jones that she had touched him with her hands. I’ve got your number, he thought vulgarly. He replied:
    â€œNo, what makes you think so?” The rector filling his pipe regarded them kindly.
    â€œOh, I misunderstood, then.”
    â€œThat isn’t why you thought so.”
    â€œNo?”
    â€œIt’s because you like married men,” he told her boldly.
    â€œDo I?” without interest. It seemed to Jones that he could see her interest ebb away from him, could feel it cool.
    â€œDon’t you?”
    â€œYou ought to know.”
    â€œI?” asked Jones. “How should I know?”
    â€œAren’t you an authority on women?” she replied with sweet ingenuousness. Speechless, he could have strangled her. The divine applauded.
    â€œCheckmate, Mr. Jones?”
    Just let me catch her eye again, he vowed, but she would not look at him. He sat silent and under his seething gaze she took the photograph from the desk and held it quietly for a time. Then she replaced it and reaching across the desk top she laid her hand on the rector’s.
    â€œMiss Saunders was engaged to my son,” the divine explained to Jones.
    â€œYes?” said Jones, watching her profile, waiting for her to look at him again. Emmy, that unfortunate virgin, appeared at the door.
    â€œAll right, Uncle Joe,” she said, vanishing immediately.
    â€œAh, lunch,” the rector announced, starting up. They rose.
    â€œI can’t stay,” she demurred, yielding to the divine’s hand upon her back. Jones fell in behind. “I really shouldn’t stay,” she amended.
    They moved down the dark hall and Jones watching her white dress flow indistinctly to her stride, imagining her kiss, cursed her. At a door she paused and stood aside courteously, as a man would. The rector stopped also as perforce did Jones, and here was a French comedy regarding precedence. Jones with counterfeit awkwardness felt her soft uncorseted thigh against the back of his hand and her sharp stare was like ice water. They entered the room. “Made you look at me then,” he muttered.
    The rector remarking nothing said:
    â€œSit here, Mr. Jones,” and the virgin Emmy gave him a haughty antagonistic stare. He returned her a remote yellow one. I’ll see about you later, he promised her mentally, sitting to immaculate linen. The rector drew the other guest’s chair and set himself at the head of the table.
    â€œCecily doesn’t eat very much,” he said, carving a fowl, “so the burden will fall upon you and me. But I think we can be relied upon, eh, Mr. Jones?”
    She propped her elbows opposite him. And I’ll attend to you, too, Jones promised her darkly. She still ignored his yellow gaze and he said: “Certainly, sir,” employing upon her the old thought process which he had used in school when he was prepared upon a certain passage, but she ignored him with such thorough perfection that he knew a sudden qualm of unease, a faint doubt. I wonder if I am wrong? he pondered. I’ll find out, he decided suddenly.
    â€œYou were saying, sir”—still watching her oblivious shallow face—“as Miss Saunders so charmingly came in, that I am too specious. But one must always generalize: about fornication. Only