Occasion for Loving Read Free

dead off politics,” Boaz said to them both.
    â€œThat’s right,” said Tom.
    â€œOh yes,” said Jessie, “but they blow in under the door.”
    â€œI mean, you get together with a bunch of South Africans in London, and you begin to wonder how you would ever draw a breath here again without it meaning something political. I wouldn’t have come back for that.”
    â€œYou’ve come to do your job.” Tom stated it for him.
    â€œI’m not going to worry about anything else,” he said firmly. And then he added: “But I’m glad it brought me back here.” They laughed. “Well, naturally. I’ve come back free, in a way. I can go about among these people, and not—at least, without—” he was feeling for the right definition.
    â€œWithout hurting them,” said Jessie dreamily, nodding her head as if she had suddenly read aloud from a phrase in her mind.
    â€œHe doesn’t mean that,” Tom said.
    â€œWithout being hurt by them.”
    â€œNo, no.” Yet the real identification of what had not been expressed lay suspended somewhere between the two phrases. Tom and Jessie went on trying, forgetful of Boaz Davis himself. “Without responsibility?” said Jessie.
    â€œNo,
with
responsibility, that’s just it; not irresponsibly, but with responsibility to his work, which is impartial, by its very nature, disinterested.”
    â€œAnd all that’s left is for him to feel partial or impartial, as he pleases, as a man?”
    â€œExactly!” “Yes, that’s it!” The two men came down where she had hit upon it, loudly, laughing.
    â€œI’m not so sure that it’s as easy as that.” Jessie spoke soberly, though her mouth was twitching with pleasure. She looked up to Davis. “Anyway I suppose Tom knows what you feel as a man.” It was her first reference to the fact that Davis was about to find a place in the Stilwell house.
    The young man grinned. “He knows all about me.”
    â€œYou’ll pass, you’ll pass,” said Tom, with a gesture of acceptance that waved him towards the brandy bottle.
    â€œI don’t think I want another one?” he said, smiling.
    â€œYes you do,” said Tom, and, turning practical, added, “By the way, the usual system—I mean the one we’ve found works best, before—is that you pay your set whack for board-and-lodge, but then we split the liquor bill between us, each month. You’ll probably find you lose, in the end, as we’re bound to drink more than you do.” There was the usual exchange of laughing protests. But when the young man excused himself, a little while later, he said simply when he came back into the room: “I think we’re very lucky. I like this house. What’s there about it?”
    â€œWe’ve convinced it that it doesn’t have to feel it’s a disgrace to be an old house, after all.” Tom made a precious face.
    â€œIt’ll be a surprise to Ann. After my descriptions of Johannesburg, she’ll be ready for yellow brick or split-level with picture windows.”
    â€œCan’t be done, I’m afraid. Can’t afford it.”
    â€œAnn’s English, is she?” said Jessie, rousing herself to make some show of interest.
    â€œWell, she was born in Rhodesia, actually. But she’s grown up in England and never been back.”
    â€œAnd how long ago was that—this being born in Rhodesia, I mean?”
    â€œDarling, what elaborate circumlocutions!”
    Davis smiled. “Not very long. She’s twenty-two.”
    â€œA-ah! The pretty little dear! You’ll have to watch the old man, Jessie, I’m telling you!” said Tom in a cracked cackle, leering.
    The heat drew each day a little tighter than the last. Jessie fought sleep, after lunch, and went about the house stunned with the battle. She walked bare-foot and her only