Cousin Peet was wearing the hip sliver of a pink bikini, and nothing else. Even though Cousin Peet was on the small side as girls usually go, in the hip sliver of a pink bikini there seemed to be a great deal of her, all clearly superior. Her self-advertising tended to disconcert strangers, for she was given to lying about almost anywhere in almost nothing; and sometimes, in some places, in nothing absolutely. The only thing that shocked her was the continual rediscovery that practically all members of the male sex construed her innocent displays as invitations to finger the merchandise — that is, after they had got over being disconcerted. They could never seem to understand, as they dragged themselves away clutching their groins, that Cousin Peet’s sex drive was only slightly stronger than a flat-worm’s.
Cousin Peet’s habit of going about casually near-naked never seemed to put any notions into her head that could not have been freely discussed from the rostrum at a D.A.R. meeting. Prin’s own notions in certain circumstances were not so unimpeachable. In her view, poor Peet was a waste; and Prin felt no envy in conceding the quality of what was being wasted, for not only did she possess attributes that were just as good, but she also knew what to do with them, which apparently Cousin Peet did not.
“Hello, you Peet,” Prin said, drifting over to the umbrella-table. “Where’s anybody?”
Peet raised herself on her elbows and twisted from the dimpled gimbals, ignoring the absence of the upper sliver. Her large, light blue eyes seemed not quite focused. This gave them a kind of lovely vacancy reminiscent of Ophelia or some other tragic heroine who had lost her mind, but of course this was an illusion: as Uncle Slater said, she had no mind to lose.
“Well,” Peet said brightly, “here I am, and here you are.”
“Yes,” Prin said, “there’s no doubt about that. And Uncle Slater just went up to his room. But where are Aunt Lallie and Twig and Brady?”
“Aunt Lallie is taking her afternoon siesta. At least she says that’s what she does in her room after lunch, and she always goes upstairs, so I guess it’s true. I saw Twig drifting around a couple of times. And Brady was here a while ago, and then he went around back to hit some golf balls or something, and I’m glad.”
“Why?” asked Prin, knowing perfectly well why.
“Because he kept acting so peculiar, Prin.”
“For instance?” asked Prin unnecessarily, for there was nothing else to do.
“Well, he kept staring and staring at me the way he does. With the most threatening expression. And he sat down, and stood up, and up, and down, and up-and-down till I got most as itchy as he was. What do you suppose can be the matter with Brady?”
“It’s an itchy day. Take my advice, though, Peetie-girl, and don’t let Brady sweet-talk you into a dark corner to explain it.”
“Do you think he might be dangerous?” cried Cousin Peet, two of her attributes bobbing with agitation. “You ought to know, Prin. Your own brother and all.”
“Not as much as you’d think,” Prin sighed. “Brady ran away from home when he was fifteen and I was nine. I saw him only once between then and the time he turned up here.”
“Could something be wrong with him, do you suppose?”
“Nothing serious. Just the Peetis fornicatis itch.”
“Well, I hope so.”
“What?” said Prin. “Never mind, Peetie. I think I’ll go on back inside and nibble on another gin and tonic and do some itching of my own.”
Peet nodded as if she understood perfectly. She lowered herself to the blue mattress again with a happy little sigh, and Princess left her. Prin made another drink and went upstairs to her room, having suddenly decided to lie down for a while. Her head was spinning and lying down seemed the sensible preference to falling down, which she kept having the disturbing sensation she was about to do. In her room she kicked off her shoes and sat down on the bed and finished her third gin and tonic. The dizziness unaccountably increased, and she did what she had come up to the bedroom to do: she lay down and closed her eyes. This immediately made her think of Coley Collins, a young man of whom she had recently begun to think itchily.
She was engaged in this pleasant preoccupation when someone knocked on her door and opened it simultaneously. For a horrid moment Prin thought it might be Cousin Twig, against whom privacy could be reasonably assured only by a well-turned key, and she had forgotten to turn it. Her eyes flew open and she jerked her skirt down at the same instant; but then she saw that it was Brother Brady, and Prin murmured, “Thank God,” and shut her eyes again.
Brother Brady, not grasping the nuance of his sister’s piety, was pleased. “Hi, Princess,” he said heartily. “What are you doing home?”
“Lying down, as you see,” said Prin, stretched out like a newly arranged corpse. “And what I’d like to do next, Brady, is drift away with my thoughts into slumberland. So goodbye?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” Brother Brady asked, with the virtuous concern of one to whom the phenomenon was of theoretical interest only.
“I got a convenient case of little-girl trouble and Mr. Free said I could go home.”
“Atta sis,” said Brady approvingly. “I don’t see why you waste your time on that crummy job, anyway. It’s so — so—” he groped for le mot juste “—unnecessary.”
“Oh, go away,” murmured Prin.
“You’re an idiot. I wish I had your in with Uncle Slater. Man, would I take him! Here you are, able to get anything you want from him if you’d only try—”
“What I want I already get without trying.”
“You’re a square, do you know that?” said Brother Brady; this time he stalked over and sat down hard on the bed. Prin opened one eye and quickly closed it again. His brief moment of good humor was gone; he had that ugly look again. Most people didn’t see the ugliness, especially women, but Prin could see it even when Brady was being agreeable and charming, and it always gave her a chill. Brother Brady, she was sure, was capable of anything, even murder, and he may have been guilty of that for all she knew — knowing him, after all, so little. Right now, sitting on Prin’s bed, he looked sullen and dangerous, and it meant that he had had some kind of unsettling experience.
“What’s the matter with you?” Prin said. “Has something happened?”
“What makes you think something’s happened?” he growled. “Not a damned thing’s happened.”
“Well, according to what Peet just said—”
Brother Brady’s body beautiful quivered. “What did Peet just say?”
“She said you kept staring at her and acting itchy.”
“How does she expect me to act,” snarled Brady, “when she’s always lying around without any clothes on? That damn Peet is crazy, that’s what she is! She’s the most deceptive female I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“I don’t think she means to be.”
“In my opinion she’s frigid. I’d bet on it,” said Brady excitedly.
“Not with me, brother. You’re surely right, and I don’t have the least doubt you’ve made every effort to prove it. Your own cousin, too. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“What I can’t understand is why she leads a fellow on,” muttered Brady. “It’s damn confusing.”
“Peet doesn’t lead anyone on. She just likes to go naked.”
“She ought to put some clothes on!”
“Women are showing themselves practically naked in public wherever you look.”
“But does she have to do it in private?” cried Brady. He inhaled his rage and said with formidable quietude, “She better quit is all I’ve got to say. She don’t, she’ll be in for one hell of a surprise one of these days.”