"Pain's their license for any fun. Not in Nature--just in people. And what--incidentally--is your feeling about that?" "Being hurt? I'd hate it." "Me, too. Hurting, then?" Her wary eyes decided. She raised a shoulder and let it fall. "What would you do if a guy who loved it asked you to beat him? If you knew it was the only kick he could get out of life? If he brought you a switch--" "--just like the kind his mother used--" "--and begged you?" I said, "Scram." "Suppose _a girl_ did?" She looked at me intently. It was an idea that had never crossed my mind. I thought it over. "Scram," I repeated. "There's pain enough in life--even in loving--without asking for more." Gwen's eyebrows went up. "It's another thing I can't feel, either." She gestured with her hand, pushing the idea away from herself. She'd finished her highball long since. She made another, now--a stronger one. I didn't want any more Coca-Cola at the moment--any more anything. Any more her, even. And that shocked me. What had the sensation come from? From her most recent confession? No. It was familiar--undistressing in that connotation--a known, acknowledged, assimilated phenomenon, like any other biological datum of birds, bees, flowers, our earth. Nothing surprising at all. It went back to the question "Why?": To Loneliness, Beauty and Fun and all that. The truth was, I had been unwilling, once again, to face the night unsleepy and alone. I didn't want a girl; this one, or any one, except Ricky. But the not-wanting of solitude was the greater negative. She'd turned to another radio station and found a slow rumba. She drank deeply--standing--and moving her hips in tempo. "Come on," she said. Unwillingly, and unwilling to protest the heat of the night, I began to dance with her. She was, as Hattie had promised, very good. I thought that presently I would stop this and send her home. It would be awkward. And then, as the music quickened and we made a spot turn in the center of the room, I saw through the doors to the doors beyond--the doors that led to Yvonne's room. Mine was no longer flatly parallel with the wall. I raised my voice. "Come on in, Yvonne!" I had never relocked the door on my side. She came in. Gwen looked at her, at me, at Yvonne again--not troubling to hide the fact that she was astonished. But not irritated. I would have expected Yvonne to be embarrassed--who would not? She wasn't. Her gray eyes met mine steadily. "I hoped you'd call me today," she said. "When you didn't--I had dinner with dad. I got back after the theater--and I heard your radio go on. I finally decided to knock on your door. But when I unlocked the one on my side--I found yours open. I was just about to say boo! and ask for a drink. I'll be good and go quietly afterward." She said it steadily, rapidly, so that I knew, and Gwen knew, she had prepared it. "Mrs. Prentiss," I said, "Yvonne Prentiss--Miss Gwen Talyor." Yvonne turned and held out her hand.