"Great! I'm happy. I feel like going places, doing things."
Howard glanced at him, a sidewise glance, appraisingly. "There's always time for happiness," he said.
A taxi separated them at a crossing. Howard came to Ken's side. "I'm tired," he said. "You are charging me with your own energy."
It was nearly theatre time; traffic blocked the streets, crowds poured into the theatres.
"In four weeks, Ken," the producer spoke with confident warmth, "you will be the best known dancer on Broadway."
Awareness, Ken knew, was dangerous. He lay in bed, gazing up at the ceiling. A line, stained brown with rusted wetness, carried his eyes to the distant dark corner of the room.
For eighteen months he had been rocketed through life. No time to pause. No memories peeping up at him timidly, like naughty children who have been playing over-late behind the barn.
The show, of course, would be a success. Howard Vee was destined to become famous. His varied talents were surely those of genius. Ken was glad that success would come to Howard. He liked Howard.
As for the others, they were precious people. Don't come any finer. Clever too. Full of wisecracks, gags and practical jokes, forever doing something to keep the old pep up. Comfortable old Norah dancing her head off. Rosemary Rose with the "come into my parlor" look. Rumors were being circulated. Rosemary Rose, it was said, picked a chorus boy from each show, made him her chauffeur and
