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Ginnie
waited
,
but
nothing
led
away
from
this
statement
.
"
Where
’
d
you
meet
her
,
then
?
"
she
asked
.
"
Party
,
"
he
said
.
"
At
a
party
?
When
?
"
"
I
don
’
t
know
.
Christmas
,
’
42
.
"
From
his
breast
pajama
pocket
he
two
-
fingered
out
a
cigarette
that
looked
as
though
it
had
been
slept
on
.
"
How
’
bout
throwing
me
those
matches
?
"
he
said
.
Ginnie
handed
him
a
box
of
matches
from
the
table
beside
her
.
He
lit
his
cigarette
without
straightening
out
its
curvature
,
then
replaced
the
used
match
in
the
box
.
Tilting
his
head
back
,
he
slowly
released
an
enormous
quantity
of
smoke
from
his
mouth
and
drew
it
up
through
his
nostrils
.
He
continued
to
smoke
in
this
"
French
-
inhale
"
style
.
Very
probably
,
it
was
not
part
of
the
sofa
vaudeville
of
a
showoff
but
,
rather
,
the
private
,
exposed
achievement
of
a
young
man
who
,
at
one
time
or
another
,
might
have
tried
shaving
himself
lefthanded
.
"
Why
’
s
Joan
a
snob
?
"
Ginnie
asked
.
"
Why
?
Because
she
is
.
How
the
hell
do
I
know
why
?
"
"
Yes
,
but
I
mean
why
do
you
say
she
is
?
"
He
turned
to
her
wearily
.
"
Listen
.
I
wrote
her
eight
goddam
letters
.
Eight
.
She
didn
’
t
answer
one
of
’
em
.
"
Ginnie
hesitated
.
"
Well
,
maybe
she
was
busy
.
"
"
Yeah
.
Busy
.
Busy
as
a
little
goddam
beaver
.
"
