Soldiers Pay by William Faulkner Page B

after—”
    â€œMr. Jones!” the rector exclaimed heavily.
    â€œâ€”the fornication is committed should one talk about it at all, and then only to generalize, to become—in your words—specious. He who kisses and tells is not very much of a fellow, is he?”
    â€œMr. Jones,” the rector remonstrated.
    â€œMr. Jones!” she echoed. “What a terrible man you are! Really, Uncle Joe——”
    Jones interrupted viciously. “As far as the kiss itself goes, women do not particularly care who does the kissing. All they are interested in is the kiss itself.”
    â€œMr. Jones!” she repeated, staring at him, then looking quickly away. She shuddered.
    â€œCome, come, sir. There are ladies present.” The rector achieved his aphorism.
    Jones pushed his plate from him, Emmy’s raw and formless hand removed it and here was a warm golden brow crowned with strawberries. Dam’f I look at her, he swore, and so he did. Her gaze was remote and impersonal, green and cool as sea water and Jones turned his eyes first. She turned to the rector, talking smoothly about flowers. He was politely ignored and he moodily engaged his spoon as Emmy appeared again.
    Emmy emanated a thin hostility and staring from Jones to the girl, she said:
    â€œLady to see you, Uncle Joe.”
    The rector poised his spoon. “Who is it, Emmy?”
    â€œI dunno. I never saw her before. She’s waiting in the study.”
    â€œHas she had lunch? Ask her in here.”
    (She knows I am watching her. Jones knew exasperation and a puerile lust.)
    â€œShe won’t want anything to eat. She said not to disturb you until you had finished dinner. You be re go in and see what she wants.” Emmy retreated.
    The rector wiped his mouth and rose. “I suppose I must. You young people sit here until I return. Call Emmy if you want anything.”
    Jones sat in sullen silence, turning a glass in his fingers. At last she looked at his bent ugly face.
    â€œSo you are unmarried, as well as famous,” she remarked.
    â€œFamous because I’m unmarried,” he replied darkly.
    â€œAnd courteous because of which?”
    â€œEither one you like.”
    â€œWell, frankly, I prefer courtesy.”
    â€œDo you often get it?”
    â€œAlways . . . eventually.” He made no reply and she continued: “Don’t you believe in marriage?”
    â€œYes, as long as there are no women in it.” She shrugged indifferently. Jones could not bear seeming a fool to any {me as shallow as he considered her and he blurted, wanting to kick himself: “You don’t like me, do you?”
    â€œOh, I like anyone who believes there may be something he doesn’t know,” she replied without interest.
    â€œWhat do you mean by that?” (are they green or grey?) Jones was a disciple of the cult of boldness with women. He rose and the table wheeled smoothly as he circled it: he wished faintly that he were more graceful. Those thrice unhappy trousers! You can’t blame her, he thought with fairness. What would I think had she appeared in one of her grandma’s mother hubbards? He remarked her reddish dark hair and the delicate slope of her shoulder. (I’ll put my hand there and let it slip down her arm as she turns.)
    Without looking up, she said suddenly: “Did Uncle Joe tell you about Donald?” (Oh hell, thought Jones.) “Isn’t it funny,” her chair scraped to her straightening knees, “we both thought of moving at the same time?” She rose, her chair intervened woodenly and Jones stood ludicrous and foiled. “You take mine and I’ll take yours,” she added, moving around the table.
    â€œYou bitch,” said Jones evenly and her green-blue eyes took him as sweetly as water.
    â€œWhat made you say that?” she asked quietly. Jones, having to an extent eased his feelings, thought he saw a recurring interest in her