took nice long afternoon automobile rides with him. Who, Agnes O'Reilly had demanded, would she play offstage matinees with this season?
Ken was beginning to love these new friends of his. Frankie Regan was a card, peppier than seventeen wild cats. He'd be great in that specialty at the end of the timestep number. Harry Waldron was an interesting type. Old Henry Colman was lovable.
As for Jules Monroe—Ken reserved mental comment. He was clever, no doubt of that. Too clever. His eyes too hypnotic. Ken was pretty sure about Monroe. Unpleasant the thought. Well, he'd been young, then, too damned young. He'd keep away, though, from Monroe.
Of course, he mused, there could be fun in it. No use making a mess of life because an old man had liked you once. Some day he'd come around to a sane view of such things. He'd soon be able to think straight.
At present and possibly forever, he'd keep to the straight and narrow. He'd strayed long enough with that Tia Juana floosie. He was old enough now to understand. He understood he wanted to be a star. A star for Howard.
Henry Colman liked Ken. "You're too clean a looking lad to be in this game," he said when Ken dropped into the office looking for Howard. He offered Ken a cigar.
"What makes you think so, boss?" Ken asked.
The theatre owner was a gentle, fatherly figure, whose appeal was strong. "I like you," Henry Colman smiled. "If I had a son, you'd be him. What say to a cocktail, gin, Noéillet Prat and a dash of anisette?"
"Thanks, but no drinking until the show opens. Thanks."
