.?â
âMore beer, Susan?â Tim was looking at her half-empty glass and was leaning forward with the bottle toward her, struggling slightly as he rose from his chair.
âHere!â Dan said, pushing Tim back, and without even moving his body he stretched one long arm across Susan with the bottle poised above her glass.
âCuff or plain?â he asked.
Sue, who really doubted she could swallow another sip, was simply thrilled to her very marrow at the sound of his deep voice and said, if breathlessly, âOh, cuff, but definitely !â
He poured. She raised her glass and smiled at Joe over its white foam.
vi
It was now after lunch and Lucy Pendleton and Honor and Nan Garton stood together almost silently to wash the dishes in the kitchen. Sara had disappeared. Moments later Tim, too, was gone.
Joe Kelly stood dreamily in the hot sun on the outer edge of the flower-bordered terrace that ran the length of the house. He felt pleasantly full of fresh sweet nourishment that held no reproach, and he thought not of the ugly food heâd been eating while all the hidden people in that hideous place were starving. He thought of going into the shaded room, of lying down without speech or much thought to await digestion and the setting sun.
Sue was already inside, he knew, curled like an attractive foetus around a small striped cushion in the blue chaise, eyes shut, her mouth closed softly. Joe had stood looking at her before heâd come out onto the terrace, seeing with a new tenderness the smudges under her lashes and the way her delicate bones showed under the tight little yellow sweater, poor kid! Perhaps Sara was right; she was just too little to go bumming around the countryside with him.
Heâd then looked up, almost shamefaced, at Dan Tennant, walking through the room from the kitchen. Right then Joe had begun to softly whistle.
âShhhush!â Dan hissed, and Joe had, for a moment, felt angry, as if Joe didnât know his own girl was sleeping.
Joe scowled, then relaxed, as the green door closed and Dan disappeared. The young chap was right, after all. He, Joseph Kelly,was a thoughtless bastard. Then he grinned in complacency. He stretched and then ambled like a great heavy cat, a tom, out into the sun.
Below him the lake lay, mile after hard, shimmering mile, under the steep vine-covered terraces of the hill. He felt that he could easily throw a football in a curve wide enough to fly over the vineyards at his feet and have it land well out into the Léman. He could imagine the ripple, circling out and out, lapping tinily at the walls of the Château de Glérolles, growing weaker as they widened, coming at last in a faint diminishing curve to the far shores and the gloomy beach of Saint-Gingolph in France.
Joe spat richly and was astounded to see how foolish were his dreams of ever hitting the lake with a football or any other projectile. He peered nervously over the ledge of the terrace and saw, about twenty feet below, a square water basin set into the slope and on its edge, sat Dan, who was holding one long hand in a ruminative way, under the steady spout of water. He was wearing a pair of dirty white trunks and dark glasses.
Joe debated calling down to him, but felt sleepy and, besides, he wasnât sure he liked this cub-brother of Saraâs. Dan might be all right when he got smoothed out a bit or else maybe learned not to be so damned smooth, Joe couldnât decide.
Like most of those whoâd gone to Western colleges, Joe had an instinctive and almost self-righteous distrust of the clothes, the manners, the general self-assurance of the men whoâd gone to Eastern schools. He knew that this, too, was partly by tacit agreement that he, as a Westerner, would remain as he was, less polished, but he liked those mannerisms none the more for that. The hair, for instance. Why the hell didnât Dan Tennant cut his hair and wear it short, like a man?
âMore beer, Susan?â Tim was looking at her half-empty glass and was leaning forward with the bottle toward her, struggling slightly as he rose from his chair.
âHere!â Dan said, pushing Tim back, and without even moving his body he stretched one long arm across Susan with the bottle poised above her glass.
âCuff or plain?â he asked.
Sue, who really doubted she could swallow another sip, was simply thrilled to her very marrow at the sound of his deep voice and said, if breathlessly, âOh, cuff, but definitely !â
He poured. She raised her glass and smiled at Joe over its white foam.
vi
It was now after lunch and Lucy Pendleton and Honor and Nan Garton stood together almost silently to wash the dishes in the kitchen. Sara had disappeared. Moments later Tim, too, was gone.
Joe Kelly stood dreamily in the hot sun on the outer edge of the flower-bordered terrace that ran the length of the house. He felt pleasantly full of fresh sweet nourishment that held no reproach, and he thought not of the ugly food heâd been eating while all the hidden people in that hideous place were starving. He thought of going into the shaded room, of lying down without speech or much thought to await digestion and the setting sun.
Sue was already inside, he knew, curled like an attractive foetus around a small striped cushion in the blue chaise, eyes shut, her mouth closed softly. Joe had stood looking at her before heâd come out onto the terrace, seeing with a new tenderness the smudges under her lashes and the way her delicate bones showed under the tight little yellow sweater, poor kid! Perhaps Sara was right; she was just too little to go bumming around the countryside with him.
Heâd then looked up, almost shamefaced, at Dan Tennant, walking through the room from the kitchen. Right then Joe had begun to softly whistle.
âShhhush!â Dan hissed, and Joe had, for a moment, felt angry, as if Joe didnât know his own girl was sleeping.
Joe scowled, then relaxed, as the green door closed and Dan disappeared. The young chap was right, after all. He, Joseph Kelly,was a thoughtless bastard. Then he grinned in complacency. He stretched and then ambled like a great heavy cat, a tom, out into the sun.
Below him the lake lay, mile after hard, shimmering mile, under the steep vine-covered terraces of the hill. He felt that he could easily throw a football in a curve wide enough to fly over the vineyards at his feet and have it land well out into the Léman. He could imagine the ripple, circling out and out, lapping tinily at the walls of the Château de Glérolles, growing weaker as they widened, coming at last in a faint diminishing curve to the far shores and the gloomy beach of Saint-Gingolph in France.
Joe spat richly and was astounded to see how foolish were his dreams of ever hitting the lake with a football or any other projectile. He peered nervously over the ledge of the terrace and saw, about twenty feet below, a square water basin set into the slope and on its edge, sat Dan, who was holding one long hand in a ruminative way, under the steady spout of water. He was wearing a pair of dirty white trunks and dark glasses.
Joe debated calling down to him, but felt sleepy and, besides, he wasnât sure he liked this cub-brother of Saraâs. Dan might be all right when he got smoothed out a bit or else maybe learned not to be so damned smooth, Joe couldnât decide.
Like most of those whoâd gone to Western colleges, Joe had an instinctive and almost self-righteous distrust of the clothes, the manners, the general self-assurance of the men whoâd gone to Eastern schools. He knew that this, too, was partly by tacit agreement that he, as a Westerner, would remain as he was, less polished, but he liked those mannerisms none the more for that. The hair, for instance. Why the hell didnât Dan Tennant cut his hair and wear it short, like a man?
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