When his pipe was finished he knocked it out on the edge of the fireplace and put both arms around her. They kissed, and he hugged her tighter and tighter and then, just as their lips separated, he tried to make her lie down. “No,” she said uneasily, and pushed him away. He stopped and she felt ridiculously stiff and upright. She leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. “What’s the matter with you tonight?” he asked, not unreasonably. She didn’t say anything because she didn’t want to explain this sensation of wariness. Two or three times before she had spent the whole evening lying with him on the couch, fondling more or less innocuously. She felt now—she didn’t say it even to herself, but she felt that it was time for something more to happen. She had been brought up in the belief that it was up to her, as the control element in the game, to keep a watchful eye on developments and to manage when it came to necking. They started it and did their best to let it run its own course. They deliberately forgot what they were doing. And then if anything definite happened, everybody knew they always felt sorry and wished it hadn’t happened. So it was up to her to remember. “Well?” said Harvey. “I don’t feel like it,” she said. “Sure you do. Come on.” He pulled her down and she lay next to him rigid and watchful. He kissed her again. “God, you’re cold tonight.” “Well, I told you.” “Want a drink?” “No.” He tried to make her open her lips. She was stubborn and in the struggle they both laughed and she relented a little. In a stupid, urgent way he made love to her while she waited passively and grew more and more irritated. He was so easy to see through. Trying to make her forget, trying to deny all her intelligence, trying to sneak. It was worse than when he just sort of went to sleep and breathed hard and forgot anything except that she was a body next to him to clutch and hold tight. She suddenly jerked away from him and sat up, patting her hair. Her cheeks burned because his whiskers had scratched them. “Aw, Gin!” He lay watching her for a minute, and then he too sat up, with his necktie all crooked. She was angry and a little disgusted. “Damn you,” he said. “Well, I told you. I told you.” He didn’t answer. Feeling miserable and guilty, she walked over to her coat and rummaged in the pocket for a comb. She primped and patted herself with defiant jerky movements, and wished that he would speak. He didn’t. It swept over her that she didn’t really know him at all. She didn’t really know anyone. She was alone in Santa Fé, in the universe. Everybody else was hostile and stupid and silent. “I’m going home,” she said at last. “I think I’d better not see you any more,” he answered, as if that were an answer. “All right, if you think so,” she said coldly. “It’s up to you.” It would be dull, not having him around to take her to parties. “No, it’s up to you.” “Well, then, why shouldn’t we see each other? I’m not mad.”