Soldiers Pay by William Faulkner

black stare. He tried to look her down but her gaze was impersonal as a dissection so he averted his and fumbled for his pipe.
    There came a prolonged honking of a motor horn from without and Cecily sprang to her feet.
    â€œOh, there’s—there’s a friend of ours. I’ll send him away and come straight back. Will you excuse me a moment, Uncle Joe?”
    â€œEh?” The rector broke his speech. “Oh, yes.”
    â€œAnd you, Mrs. Powers?” She moved toward the door and her glance swept Jones again. “And you, Mr. Jones?”
    â€œGeorge got a car, has he?” Jones asked as she passed him. “Bet you don’t come back.”
    She gave him her cool stare and from beyond the study door she heard the rector’s voice resume the story again—of Donald, of course. And now I’m engaged again, she thought complacently, enjoying George’s face in anticipation when she would tell him. And that long black woman has been making love to him—or he to her. I guess it’s that, from what I know of Donald. Oh, well that’s how men are, I guess. Perhaps he’ll want to take us both. . . . She tripped down the steps into the sunlight: the sunlight caressed her with joy, as though she were a daughter of sunlight. How would I like to have a husband and wife, too, I wonder? Or two husbands? I wonder if I want one even, want to get married at all. . . . I guess it’s worth trying, once. I’d like to see that horrible fat one’s face if he could hear me say that, she thought. Wonder why I let him kiss me? Ugh!
    George leaned from his car watching her restricted swaying stride with faint lust. “Come on, come on,” he called.
    She did not increase her gait at all. He swung the door open, not bothering to dismount himself, “My God, what took you so long?” he asked plaintively. “Dam’f I thought you were coming at all.”
    â€œI’m not,” she told him, laying her hand on the door. Her white dress in the nooning sun was unbearable to the eye, sloped to her pliant fragility. Beyond her, across the lawn, was another pliant gesture though this was only a tree, a poplar.
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œNot coming. My fiancé is arriving today.”
    â€œAw hell, get in.”
    â€œDonald’s coming today,” she repeated, watching him. His face was ludicrous; blank as a plate, then shocked to slow amazement.
    â€œWhy, he’s dead,” he said vacuously.
    â€œBut he isn’t dead,” she told him sweetly. “A lady friend he’s travelling with came on ahead and told us. Uncle Joe’s like a balloon.”
    â€œAh, come on, Cecily, you’re kidding me.”
    â€œI swear I’m not. I’m telling you the God’s truth.”
    His smooth empty face hung before her like a handsome moon, empty as a promise. Then it filled with an expression of a sort.
    â€œHell, you got a date with me tonight. Whatcher going to do about that?”
    â€œWhat can I do? Donald will be here by then.”
    â€œThen it’s all off with us?”
    She gazed at him, then looked quickly away. Funny how only an outsider had been able to bring home to her the significance of Donald’s imminence, his return. She nodded dumbly, beginning to feel miserable and lost.
    He leaned from the car and caught her hand. “Get in here,” he commanded.
    â€œNo, no, I can’t,” she protested, trying to draw back. He held her wrist. “No, no, let me go. You are hurting me.”
    â€œI know it,” he answered grimly. “Get in.”
    â€œDon’t, George, don’t! I must go back.”
    â€œWell, when can I see you?”
    Her mouth trembled. “Oh, I don’t know. Please, George. Don’t you see how miserable I am?” Her eyes became blue, dark; the sunlight made bold the wrenched thrust of her body, her thin taut arm. “Please, George.”
    â€œAre you going to