"What is it?" she looked up. "Oh, I can see it in your face. You don't love me."
"I ought to. I should—"
"But you can't?"
He let her go. His movements had been mechanical. He had not been thinking. Nothing to think about, until she had mentioned Ed Feinberg. Then the coarse features of the agent returned vividly to his mind.
"I … we … we meet somehow in different ways. I don't know how to explain what I mean," he said. "I love you—I seem to love you for everything you are—everything you are to me."
"Then why?" She changed expression suddenly. "I know. Because this will be your first affair?"
"No—" Deep in his consciousness he discovered the obscure memory of an unforgettable night at Malibu. A shudder shook him. His face became a plastic study in hatred.
"I know," she said.
"How could you?" he cried.
"You hate me … that's the real truth, isn't it?"
"Oh, no!"
She turned away. "And I thought I was so wise." She took the last swig of gin raw from the bottle. Then the slip and dress from the table. "What a fool I've been!"
"Where are you going?" he asked her as she opened the door and, still half undressed, entered the corridor.
For a long time Ken stood motionless. He could feel the numbing after-effect of the gin. His thoughts were jerky, broken. He shook his head helplessly. He could not understand why Anita had gone. Slowly an intense deep-rooted urge to find her rose within him. A sere slow pas-
