Carol looked at the drink and stuck his tongue into it.
“Glorious!” he said, sipping like a kitten. Deane had the feeling he was going to take off his shoes.
To her relief Martin came in and she introduced the two men. Carol watched the newcomer suspiciously. He was shorter than Martin and chunky. He was broad in the belly; his waistband was spread with fat. His suit, which was more yellow than tan, accentuated his contour in spite of its good tailoring. His pale eyebrows lighted his pale eyes. His nose revolted at the tip and elevated itself, searching. His mouth was supposed to be prim and grim; but Martin wondered if he could catch it in a pot. His chin billowed out. His wrists were thick and his fingers perky. They touched things lightly. He took a cigarette holder from his pocket. Three of his fingers were around the stem and the fourth stuck out. Martin wondered how it would feel to bite this one off. It gave him a pleasant sensation to think of having the finger in his pocket, severed. He was so rapt in his thoughts that he smiled. This made Deane nervous. It was all right for Martin to act that way with her, but not with other people. When he smiled like that with other people it meant he was taking a trip. She tried to catch up with his thoughts before they became spectacular.
“Carol had a miserable time,” she said. “It was on a bus; and there were detours—it’s not pleasant.”
“It’s not pleasant,” repeated Carol.
Martin frowned and looked at him. He looked at Carol and the more he looked, the more he disliked him. Carol was shocked at the way Martin was watching him. It made him uncomfortable and angry. He drew his mouth into a forced, straight line, tucked in his chin and spoke to Deane.
“It was wretched, dear. I bounced this way, and I bounced that way! And my traveling companions!” He rolled his eyes. “There was a salesman!” Carol snorted; a delicate snort, neither high nor loud. “The person had a case that he held on his lap all the way!” Carol’s shoulders shook with mirth and the ashes from his cigarette fell on the rug. He stopped for a moment to nibble at his holder.
Martin felt something unhealthy—something that hung in the room like an infectious mist. But the young man squirmed comfortably and continued.
“There was an old lady. The proverbial old lady of all busses. The kind that has a basket of food and draws out apples and fried chicken and the right kind of sandwiches. She offered one of them to me.” He had made himself laugh until he felt slightly sick. “And I bounced this way, and I bounced that way!”