Again Cecille touched her lip with the tip of her tongue.
"I've been trying to," she faltered. "But I—it don't seem to me as though I want as much as you do. I'd be content with oh-so-little. With a home, and a—and a man from whom I didn't shrink when he touched me and—and—" She could go no further. That was too vivid, too intimate.
It was Felicity who displayed her feelings at the end. And already she was beginning to scorn herself for having paraded them.
"Oh-so-little!" she mocked. She did not mean to be derisive. "Just that! Just a home—just a man—a real man—content!"
"Would you be?" Cecille asked the question unaware of the other's irony.
"Say, who do you think I am," she asked, "to try to dictate terms like that to life? What do you think I am? A champion? Because that's what you're talking now. The whole purse—or nothing! I know my limits. I'm going to be glad to get a fair percentage split for my share. A home! A man! Content! I get you at last, Cecille. It's you who'd better come to. For whether you know it or not, you're talking winner—take—all!"
She rose then. She shrugged her arms and stretched them high above her head, and all visible emotion slipped from her like a discarded garment.
"And that's that!" she stated easily. She went back to the mirror and adjusted her veil. Then came a brief and awkward moment.
"Well, I guess I'll be going," she said. "The rent's paid a month in advance. Don't let that Shylock landlord gyp you."
"I won't," said Cecille.