Billy decided that he couldn’t face Jennie now. It would be turning the knife. He would beg off, have a bite at the club, and bury himself in work. In the evening he would call. By then the edge of his disappointment would have worn off. He could dissemble better then. In the evening⸺
But would there be any evening?
There it was again! The obsession! He hurled the thought from him. But it would come back! In a moment it would be there dogging him again!
He thought bleakly of the years ahead that he must live with that leering, tantalizing demon mocking him from the back of his brain.
And then it was back, confronting him again! Years ahead? Perhaps only hours! He was scheduled to fly at five o’clock! He decided he would lunch with Jennie after all. It might be the last⸺
“God!” he choked, tugging at a boot.
She was waiting for him behind the screens on the veranda. She sat listlessly, staring off at distant things. She wondered if Billy suspected a tithe of the whole truth—that she had not slept seven hours in the past week; that she could no longer eat excepting under the compulsion of her father’s watchful eye, or Billy’s; that it was increasingly difficult for her to muster the strength to rise from a chair; that the sound of an engine made her faint and giddy.
She wondered how long it would be before she must give up, must go to bed, must stay there. It wouldn’t be until the sheer impossibility of physical resistance forced it—but that might be any day. She dreaded the revelation the day would bring. She was afraid of its effect on Billy. But she held to her resolution. It was the air or nothing for them.
The crunching of Billy’s boots on the path roused her.
She was standing at the door, holding it ajar, as he came up the two short steps. She was smiling—a pathetic, lying smile.