As he entered the theatre that night, Howard greeted him. Together they climbed the stairs to Ken's dressing-room. The make-believe world of the theatre surrounded them. Rosemary, white and tiny in her careless undress, the trim perfection of a chorus girl, leg bent high against the backstage wall, the rippling chatter of the chorus dressing-room.
It had been a full, happy day for Ken. He had been alive, young. Now, Howard at his side, the mood of the night was returning. Fresh air had blown it away like a smoke ring, whirled about and dissipated by a sudden gust of wind. Here, in the theatre the still air, the smell of flesh and young sex recalled a nearly forgotten emotion.
"Howard," Ken said, "let's go out after the theatre, shall we? Are you free?"
"Of course."
"I feel like talking, hearing some music—not on Broadway—some little out-of-the-way spot."
They visited Paul's, on a side street, climbing stairs to the place Frankie Regan had recommended to Ken. "It's in the Village," Frankie had told him. "You'll like it, I'm sure."
As they sat down, Howard said: "This place always reminds me of Paris. Where did you hear about it?" "One of the boys …"
"Frankie Regan, I'll bet."
"He may be here later. Nice kid," Ken commented. Ken had planned a long, intimate chat with Howard. The room was shadowy, with dim corners, part of what had once been a second floor front tenement flat. Paul, a vast, shapeless and somewhat frowsy blonde woman, sang "blue"
