“Pretty fair stuff,” he said, smacking his lips over it. “Pretty fair, all right, all right. Might I be so bold as to ask what you pay for a…” Homer cut him short. He didn’t approve of people who drank and wanted to get rid of him.

“Your daughter’s outside,” he said with as much firmness as he could muster. “She wants you.”

Harry collapsed on the couch and began to breathe heavily. He was acting again.

“Don’t tell her,” he gasped. “Don’t tell her how sick her old daddy is.

She must never know.”

Homer was shocked by his hypocrisy.

“You’re better,” he said as coldly as he could. “Why don’t you go home?” Harry smiled to show how offended and hurt he was by the heartless attitude of his host. When Homer said nothing, his smile became one expressing boundless courage. He got carefully to his feet, stood erect for a minute, then began to sway weakly and tumbled back on the couch. “I’m faint,” he groaned.

Once again he was surprised and frightened. He was faint.

“Get my daughter,” he gasped.

Homer found her standing at the curb with her back to the house. When he called her, she whirled and came running toward him. He watched her for a second, then went in, leaving the door unlatched. Faye burst into the room. She ignored Homer and went straight to the couch.

“Now what in hell’s the matter?” she exploded.

“Darling daughter,” he said. “I have been badly taken, and this gentleman has been kind enough to let me rest for a moment.” “He had a fit or something,” Homer said.

She whirled around on him so suddenly that he was startled.

“How do you do?” she said, holding her hand forward and high up.

He shook it gingerly.

“Charmed,” she said, when he mumbled something. She spun around once more.

“It’s my heart,” Harry said. “I can’t stand up.”

The little performance he put on to sell polish was familiar to her and she knew that this wasn’t part of it. When she turned to face Homer again, she looked quite tragic. Her head, instead of being held far back, now drooped forward.

“Please let him rest there,” she said.

“Yes, of course.”

Homer motioned her toward a chair, then got her a match for her cigarette. He tried not to stare at her, but his good manners were wasted. Faye enjoyed being stared at.

He thought her extremely beautiful, but what affected him still more was her vitality. She was taut and vibrant. She was as shiny as a new spoon. Although she was seventeen, she was dressed like a child of twelve in a white cotton dress with a blue sailor collar. Her long legs were bare and she had blue sandals on her feet.

“I’m so sorry,” she said when Homer looked at her father again.

He made a motion with his hand to show that it was nothing. “He has a vile heart, poor dear,” she went on. “I’ve begged and begged him to go to a specialist, but you men are all alike.” “Yes, he ought to go to a doctor,” Homer said.

Her odd mannerisms and artificial voice puzzled him. “What time is it?” she asked.

“About one o’clock.”

She stood up suddenly and buried both her hands in her hair at the sides of her head, making it bunch at the top in a shiny ball. “Oh,” she gasped prettily, “and I had a luncheon date.” Still holding her hair, she turned at the waist without moving her legs, so that her snug dress twisted even tighter and Homer could see her dainty, arched ribs and little, dimpled belly. This elaborate gesture, like all her others, was so completely meaningless, almost formal, that she seemed a dancer rather than an affected actress. “Do you like salmon salad?” Homer ventured to ask.

“Salmon sal-ahde?”

She seemed to be repeating the question to her stomach. The answer was yes.

“With plenty of mayonnaise, huh? I adore it.”

“I was going to have some for lunch. I’ll finish making it.”

“Let me help.”

They looked at Harry, who appeared to be asleep, then went into the kitchen. While he opened a can of salmon, she climbed on a chair and straddled it with her arms folded across the top of its back and rested her chin on her arms. Whenever he looked at her, she smiled intimately and tossed her pale, glittering hair first forward, then back. Homer was excited and his hands worked quickly. He soon had a large bowl of salad ready. He set the table with his best cloth and his best silver and china.

“It makes me hungry just to look,” she said.

The way she said this seemed to mean that it was Homer who made her hungry and he beamed at her. But before he had a chance to sit down, she was already eating. She buttered a slice of bread, covered the butter with sugar and took a big bite. Then she quickly smeared a gob of mayonnaise on the salmon and went to work. Just as he was about to sit down, she asked for something to drink. He poured her a glass of milk and stood watching her like a waiter. He was unaware of her rudeness. As soon as she had gobbled up her salad, he brought her a large red apple. She ate the fruit more slowly, nibbling daintily, her smallest finger curled away from the rest of her hand. When she had finished it, she went back to the living room and Homer followed her. Harry still lay as they had left him, stretched out on the sofa. The heavy noon-day sun hit directly on his face, beating down on him like a club. He hardly felt its blows, however. He was busy with the stabbing pain in his chest. He was so busy with himself that he had even stopped trying to plan how to get money out of the big dope. Homer drew the window curtain to shade his face. Harry didn’t even notice. He was thinking about death. Faye bent over him. He saw, from under his partially closed eyelids, that she expected him to make a reassuring gesture. He refused. He examined the tragic expression that she had assumed and didn’t like it. In a serious moment like this, her ham sorrow was insulting.

“Speak to me, Daddy,” she begged.

She was baiting him without being aware of it.

“What the hell is this,” he snarled, “a Tom show?” His sudden fury scared her and she straightened up with a jerk. He didn’t want to laugh, but a short bark escaped before he could stop it. He waited anxiously to see what would happen. When it didn’t hurt he laughed again. He kept on, timidly at first, then with growing assurance. He laughed with his eyes closed and the sweat pouring down his brow. Faye knew only one way to stop him and that was to do something he hated as much as she hated his laughter. She began to sing. “Jeepers Creepers!

Where’d ya get those peepers?…”

She trucked, jerking her buttocks and shaking her head from side to side. Homer was amazed. He felt that the scene he was witnessing had been rehearsed. He was right. Their bitterest quarrels often took this form; he laughing, she singing.

“Jeepers Creepers!

Where’d ya get those eyes?

Gosh, all git up!

How’d they get so lit up?

Gosh all git…”

When Harry stopped, she stopped and flung herself into a chair. But Harry was only gathering strength for a final effort. He began again. This new laugh was not critical; it was horrible. When she was a child, he used to punish her with it. It was his masterpiece. There was a director who always called on him to give it when he was shooting a scene in an insane asylum or a haunted castle.

It began with a sharp, metallic crackle, like burning sticks, then gradually increased in volume until it became a rapid bark, then fell away again to an obscene chuckle. After a slight pause, it climbed until it was the nicker of a horse, then still higher to become a machinelike screech.

Faye listened helplessly with her head cocked on one side. Suddenly, she too laughed, not willingly, but fighting the sound. “You bastard!” she yelled.

She leaped to the couch, grabbed him by the shoulders and tried to shake him quiet.

He kept laughing.

Homer moved as though he meant to pull her away, but he lost courage and was afraid to touch her. She was so naked under her skimpy dress. “Miss Greener,” he pleaded, making his big hands dance at the end of his arms. “Please, please…”