Jones, foiled for the second time, became yellowly speculative: tactical; then, watching his chance, he cut in upon glued hair and a dinner coat. The man raised his empty iron face fretfully, but Jones skilfully cut her out of the prancing herd and into the angle made by the corner of the balustrade. Here only his back could be assailed.
He knew his advantage was but temporary, so he spoke quickly.
‘Friend of yours here tonight.’
Her feather fan drew softly across his neck. He sought her knee with his and she eluded him with efficiency, trying vainly to manoeuvre from the corner. One desiring to cut in importuned him from behind, and she said with exasperation: ‘Do you dance, Mr Jones? They have a good floor here. Suppose we try it.’
‘Your friend Donald dances. Ask him for one,’ he told her, feeling her shallow breast and her nervous efforts to evade him. One importuned him from behind and she raised her pretty unpretty face. Her hair was soft and fine, carelessly caught about her head and her painted mouth was purple in this light.
‘Here? Dancing?’
‘With his two Niobes. I saw the female one and I imagine the male one is here also.’
‘Niobes?’
‘That Mrs Powers, or whatever her name is.’
She held her head back so as to see his face. ‘You are lying.’
‘No, I’m not. They are here.’
She stared at him. He could feel her fan drooping from her arched wrist on his cheek softly and one importuned him from behind. ‘Sitting out now, in a car,’ he added.
‘With Mrs Powers?’
‘Watch your step, sister, or she’ll have him.’
She slipped from him suddenly. ‘If you aren’t going to dance—’
One importuning him from behind repeated tirelessly. ‘May I cut in,’ and she evaded Jones’s arm.
‘Oh, Lee. Mr Jones doesn’t dance.’
‘M’I’ve this dance,’ mumbled the conventional one conventionally, already encircling her. Jones stood baggy and yellow, yellowly watching her fan upon her partner’s coat, like a hushed splash of water, her arching neck and her arm crossing a black shoulder with luminous warmth, the indicated silver evasion of her limbs anticipating her partner’s like a broken dream.
‘Got a match?’ Jones, pausing, asked abruptly of a man sitting alone in a swing. He lit his pipe and lounged in slow and fat belligerence among a group sitting upon the balustrade near the steps, like birds.
The Negro cornetist spurred his men to fiercer endeavour, the brass died and a plaintive minor of hushed voices carried the rhythm until the brass, suspiring again, took it. Jones sucked his pipe, thrusting his hands in his jacket and a slim arm slid suddenly beneath his tweed sleeve.
‘Wait for me, Lee.’ Jones, looking around, remarked her fan and the glass-like fragility of her dress. ‘I must see some people in a car.’
The boy’s ironed face was a fretted fatuity above his immaculate linen. ‘Let me go with you.’
‘No, no. You wait for me. Mr Jones will take me: you don’t even know them. You dance until I come back. Promise?’
‘But say—’
Her hand flashed slimly staying him. ‘No, no. Please. Promise?’
He promised and stood to stare at them as they descended the steps passing beneath the two magnolias and so on into darkness, where her dress became a substanceless articulation beside the man’s shapeless tweed. . . . After a while he turned and walked down the emptying veranda. Where’d that slob come from? he wondered, seeing two girls watching him in poised invitation. Do they let anybody in here?
As he hesitated, the hostess appeared talking interminably, but he circumvented her with skill of long practice. Beyond a shadowed corner in the half-darkness of a swing a man sat alone. He approached and before he could make his request the man extended a box of matches.
‘Thanks,’ he murmured, without surprise, lighting a cigarette. He strolled away, and the owner of the matches fingered the small, crisp wood box, wondering mildly who the third one would be.
12
‘No, no, let’s go to them first.’
She arrested their progress and after a time succeeded in releasing her arm. As they stood, a couple passed them, and the girl, leaning to her, whispered: ‘See right through you. Stay out of the light.’
They passed on and she looked after them, watching the other girl. Cat! What a queer dress she is wearing. Funny ankles. Funny. Poor girl.
But she had little time for impersonal speculation, being attached temporarily to Jones. ‘No, no,’ she repeated, twisting the hand he held, drawing him in the direction of the car. Mrs Powers, looking over Madden’s head, saw them.
Jones released the fragile writhing of her fingers, and she sped delicately over the damp grass. He followed fatly and she put her hands on the door of the car, her narrow nervous hands, between which the green fan splashed graciously.
‘Oh, how do you do? I didn’t have any idea you were coming! If I had I would have arranged partners for you. I’m sure you dance awfully well. But then, as soon as the men see you here you won’t lack for partners, I know.’
(What does she want with him now? Watching me: doesn’t trust me with him.)
‘Awfully nice dance. And Mr Gilligan!’ (What’s she wanta come worrying him now for? She bothers damn little while he’s sitting at home there.) ‘Of course, one simply does not see Donald without Mr Gilligan. It must be nice to have Mr Gilligan fond of you like that. Don’t you think so, Mrs Powers?’ Her braced straightening arms supported a pliant slow backward curve from her hips. ‘And Rufus.’ (Yes, she is pretty. And silly. But — but pretty.)
‘You deserted me for another woman! Don’t say you didn’t. I tried to make him dance with me, Mrs Powers, but he wouldn’t do it. Perhaps you had better luck?’ A dropped knee moulded the glass-like fragility of her silver dress. ‘Ah, you needn’t say anything: we know how attractive Mrs Powers is, don’t we, Mr Jones?’ (See your behind, the shape of it. And your whole leg, when you stand like that. Knows it, too.)
Her eyes became hard, black. ‘You told me they were dancing,’ she accused.
‘He can’t dance, you know,’ Mrs Powers said. ‘We brought him so he could hear the music.’
‘Mr Jones told me you and he were dancing. And I believed him: I seem to know so much less than other people about him. But, of course, he is sick, he does not — remember his old friends, now that he has made new ones.’
(Is she going to cry? It would be just like her. The fool, the little fool.) ‘I think you are not fair to him. But won’t you get in and sit down? Mr Madden, will you — ?’
Madden had already opened the door.
‘No, no: if he likes the music I’d only disturb him. He had much rather sit with Mrs Powers, I know.’
(Yes, she’s going to make a scene.) ‘Please. Just a moment. He hasn’t seen you today, you know.’
She hesitated, then Jones regarded the dividing soft curves of her thighs and the fleeting exposure of a stocking, and borrowed a match from Gilligan. The music had ceased and through the two identical magnolias the porch was like an empty stage. The Negro driver’s head was round as a capped cannon-ball: perhaps he slept. She mounted and sank into the dark seat beside Mahon, sitting still and resigned. Mrs Powers suddenly spoke:
‘Do you dance, Mr Madden?’
‘Yes, a little,’ he admitted. She descended from the car and turning, met Cecily’s startled shallow face.
‘I’ll leave you to visit with Donald while I have a dance or two with Mr Madden, shall I?’ She took Madden’s arm. ‘Don’t you want to come in, too, Joe?’
‘I guess not,’ Gilligan answered. ‘Competition’ll be too strong for me. I’ll get you to learn me private, some time, so I can be a credit to you.’
Cecily, in exasperation, saw the other woman stealing part of her audience. But here were still Jones and Gilligan. Jones climbed heavily into the vacated seat, uninvited. Cecily gave him a fierce glance and turned her back upon him, feeling his arm against her side.
‘Donald, sweetheart,’ she said, patting her arm about Mahon. From here she could not see the scar so she drew his face to hers with her hand, laying her cheek against his. Feeling her touch, hearing voices, he stirred. ‘It’s Cecily, Donald,’ she said sweetly.
‘Cecily,’ he parroted.
‘Yes. Put your arm around me like you used to, Donald, dear heart.’ She moved nervously, but the length of Jones’s arm remained against her closely as though it were attached by suction, like an octopus’s tentacle. Trying to avoid him, her clasp about Mahon tightened convulsively, and he raised his hand, touching her face, fumbling at his glasses. ‘Easy there, Loot,’ Gilligan warned quickly, and he lowered his hand.
Cecily kissed his cheek swiftly and sat up, releasing him. ‘Oh, there goes the musk again, and I have this dance.’ She stood up in the car, looking about. One lounging immaculately, smoking, strolled past. ‘Oh, Lee,’ she called, in happy relief, ‘here I am.’
She opened the door and sprang out as the conventional one approached. Jones descended fatly, baggily, and stood dragging his jacket across his thick, heavy hips, staring yellowly at Mr Rivers. Her body poised again,
