Page 379 - sons-and-lovers

with joy. Now he was like a lad taking a holiday.
He had always been fond of Beatrice Wyld, and during
his furlough he picked up with her again. She was stronger
and better in health. The two often went long walks togeth-
er, Arthur taking her arm in soldier’s fashion, rather stiffly.
And she came to play the piano whilst he sang. Then Arthur
would unhook his tunic collar. He grew flushed, his eyes
were bright, he sang in a manly tenor. Afterwards they sat
together on the sofa. He seemed to flaunt his body: she was
aware of him so—the strong chest, the sides, the thighs in
their close-fitting trousers.
He liked to lapse into the dialect when he talked to her.
She would sometimes smoke with him. Occasionally she
would only take a few whiffs at his cigarette.
‘Nay,’ he said to her one evening, when she reached for
his cigarette. ‘Nay, tha doesna. I’ll gi’e thee a smoke kiss if
ter’s a mind.’
‘I wanted a whiff, no kiss at all,’ she answered.
‘Well, an’ tha s’lt ha’e a whiff,’ he said, ‘along wi’ t’ kiss.’
‘I want a draw at thy fag,’ she cried, snatching for the
cigarette between his lips.
He was sitting with his shoulder touching her. She was
small and quick as lightning. He just escaped.
‘I’ll gi’e thee a smoke kiss,’ he said.
‘Tha’rt a knivey nuisance, Arty Morel,’ she said, sitting
back.
‘Ha’e a smoke kiss?’
The soldier leaned forward to her, smiling. His face was
near hers.

Sons and Lovers