"Well, I'll be damned," he heard Howard say. "How did you get here?"
"Flew. Harry Berg told me you were registered here."
"I might have gone on to Quebec. Why didn't you wire me?"
Ken felt the necessity of breaking the restraint which, as they spoke, dulled their voices as cotton deadens a footfall. "I had to see you, Howard. I wanted you to know—"
"I'm here to compose songs for the new revue."
"Then I shan't disturb you. I'll go, if you prefer."
Howard's eyes darkened. A frown creased his forehead. "I want you to stay, Ken."
Over a bottle of champagne, they talked. Distantly, tram cars climbed the mountain. The afternoon sun declined in the dull orange of northern summer skies.
"I'm celebrating the lyric quality of love," Howard was saying. "My new theme song will speak more eloquently than I ever hope to." He rose and went to the piano. "Listen, Ken," he said. "This is dedicated to you."
"Love is a pretense
Love is a mask
Worn at a Cinderella ball.
Love has no tomorrow
Why, love, do I ask
You to be
All to me
You to give me all?
Love is a pretense
Love is a clown
Torn by a mad desire to cry
Love has no future
