Howard interrupted impatiently.
"Shall I tell you how I feel?" he asked.
"Please do."
"It's very simple, Kennie. You're what I need today, fulfillment—consummation—contentment. You're someone to think about, to guide. You are young, graceful, absorbingly interesting. You have humor, understanding, generosity."
"Oh, shut up."
"Very well then. I'll shut up."
The waiter brought a second bottle. He explained that the wine was chilled exactly to the proper temperature.
"Old wine from the comet year—look—1904."
"The year I was born," Ken said.
Dusk was drawing a curtain about the world.
"This wine," said Howard, "is light, carefree—what you must be when you, my dear, are with me."
He rose. "Ken," he said, abruptly, "I shall not go to Europe this year without you."
"But the show—I can't leave the show."
"You shall."
"No, I shan't."
"Dear boy," Howard said, "I shouldn't be able to write a word unless you were nearby to inspire me."
"I won't go with you. I must stay in the show."
"Nonsense—there won't be any show."
"Why not?"
"I've decided to close it up tight."
"Why?"
"To free you. So we could go to Europe, see Paris, London, shows, people. Sheer perversity of me to end the run. But then, what am I, if not perverse?"
