"I do."
"It wouldn't be so bad if I knew what I wanted. Perhaps you can tell me."
"I've felt that way too," Howard said. "My work, I think, saves me. Makes me typically an extrovert. I submerge self in a sort of bogus self-expression. Logically your dancing should do the same for you."
"It did—until I knew that I was making good. The struggle is over. The fun's gone."
"I see—you have passed the incubator stage—you are sprouting wings—"
"Horns, rather—" Ken smiled. "It's a relief to get close to myself—to see what I am becoming—that's why I wanted to talk. But I'm through spoiling your evening. What shall we do?"
They were nearing Fiftieth Street. "Let's drop in at Lido," Howard suggested.
The Lido was discreetly sophisticated, its music gently soothing, its service perfection. They sat in a corner and watched the dancers.
"This is better," Howard said. "This is a little of the old world, London, Paris, New York, everywhere where men and women are free. No ostentation. No curiosity. The mob does not come here. Hoboes are not admitted. Part of what we are is here. Artificiality. Veneer. You're gay at Lido, carefree. At Lido or any place like Lido, I'm me. Ken, I'm no longer a solid rock. No longer selfish about fame or success, or money. Here no one asks me for anything. Here I'm—me."
Ken was annoyed. "You're never solid rock. You are
