She laughed up into his face, a hard little, crisp little laugh. "Why not?" she said. "Why not?" And when he took her in his arms and kissed her it was not as he had dreamed it would be. Her body was slack, her lips not merely passive but cold against his own. His heart heavy for reasons which he could not name, he set her quickly free. "I'll be back for you, then, at three," he said. "Will you be ready?" As casually, it came to him, just as calmly he might have discussed his plan with any man. "At three," she repeated. "I'll be ready." He left her, not as happy as when he had sped up the stairs; left her demoralized now. In the interlude before his return she sat motionless, her mind a tumult of doubt. She too had dreamed what that embrace would be; she had wanted always to be near him, yet she had just shrunk from it. "Who am I to dictate such terms to life?" Felicity had demanded. "And who was she," in all that long month Cecille had been asking of herself, "who was _she_? And what was she waiting for?" Even a percentage of happiness, Felicity had preached, would be less unendurable than no happiness--ever--at all; and she had at last convinced herself that this was so. Yet now she shook with doubt. Was this dead thing the actuality which at any price she had hoped to save? Once she was very close to flight; more than once, more childishly than she knew, she wished that she would die. But she kept to her promise and waited; she was ready and went with him at three, though after he had put her in the taxi and climbed in beside her, she found it difficult to breathe. She could not have forced words from her throat had she wanted to, and he was as silent as she. For at the end of hours he had hit upon an explanation of this mood of hers, her trouble, and it was troubling him deeply, too. Two or three times, watching her still face and quiet hands, it had been upon the tip of his tongue to tell her that after all they could still abandon his plan. He had not offered to kiss her again, nor even reached for her hand, and she had been grateful for this, almost hysterically grateful as she recalled the little opportunities which she had once contrived for just such contacts. And the taxi was not merely stifling; it was like a trap. The seat was far too narrow. Even though she huddled into her corner the six inches of clear space which separated them was all too brief. So they rode south, both unhappier with every turn of the wheels, till suddenly he saw her hands tighten into fists, and her lips begin to move. "I can't," was what he made of that whisper. "Oh, ask him to stop--please--please!" He did not question her; her face was enough. The cab pulled up to the curb. She flung open the door and started to get out. But she could not go like this--not without a word--not without some explanation--even if she had to brave his rage.