"Well, I guess I'll be going." She picked up her bag. They did not kiss each other.
"Well—so-long."
"I—I wish you—" Cecille checked herself. She had been about to say I wish you happiness. She meant that, yet clumsily she changed it.
"I wish you luck."
At that Felicity paused.
"Does this hat look all right?"
Cecille nodded. And then she was gone.
So Felicity passes. No dark river. No swift oblivion. No agony of remorse. Those who may feel that her history is incomplete, that they have been robbed of their full meed of vindictive satisfaction, I must refer back to an earlier paragraph. And to those who may say, Here is a dangerous departure from the formula for such tales, there is only one honest retort. Felicity isn't a figment of fancy. Felicity's from the life.