The door closed upon the old man. Ken faced a worn mirror. He stared at himself, regarded his features carefully. He was heavier, older, with frank, clear eyes. He opened the window, breathed deeply, then began to undress.
"New York," Nellie Nasmuth had said, "is what you make of it—though I suppose you can say that of any crossroads jerkwater town. If you're hollow-chested and hungry, you'll either be inspired to aspire or you'll expire. If you're flabby and self-satisfied—beware.
"Look at me. I'm just another Irish brat. Look at the nose—it's got a knob on it; the eyes don't speak to each other and the mouth lies at the foot of a triangle that's Irisher than County Clare. I can't sing. I can't dance. I'm the world's worst actress. I make eight-fifty a week—eight hundred and fifty smackers—and I stay pure!"
What a girl this Nellie was! Cheerier than cheery. The old lady, too, was hot stuff; Norah nice, really an excellent dancer.
"You're the cleanest looking couple of hoofers I've seen in years," Leon Shaw had said. "No use putting you in a Follies or a Scandals. No pop vaudeville either. You go into a cute little musical like 'Chasing Rainbows!' That's where you belong."
A few weeks later Norah mentioned Howard Vee.
"Typical rich young man," Leon told her. "Though he's got a nice theatre. If he only wouldn't try to pull a Noel Coward. He wants to do everything himself—except act."
Personalities, Ken concluded as he slipped into dancing shorts, collide in New York. Out west you drift. Plenty of space. No one cares. Here, he was becoming sensitive to
