Quiet blue-black water, curving fingers of land. Along the wide beach, flickering fires.
"We shall go to Malibu. I have a villa there," said Mr. Lowell.
For a few minutes the car drove along the ocean highway, parallel to the beach. Then a sharp turn to the east, up and up to a hillcrest. There a low rambling Monterey cottage.
Johnson's white teeth gleamed as he held open the limousine door. Within, Kari, the Japanese butler, silently pointed to the linen-topped table, ready for supper for two.
Kari smiled mysteriously. Mr. Lowell patted the Japanese on the shoulder.
"Lonely for me, Kari?"
"Yes, Missee Lowell … lonesome like the sea."
From the patio, Ken saw the wide peaceful ocean. Overhead, the bamboo screen was drawn back so as to admit the sham light of a metallic moon. A lantern swung from a rod, barely moving in a fitful breeze.
"This is Malibu Canyon," said Mr. Lowell. "Here we are above and away from those we do not choose to know. My road is truly private … the next house is a mountain-top shack eleven miles away.
"Here no one comes who is weak or insipid or uninteresting. Here come my choicest friends, those who are like you—sturdy—straightforward, fine."
They stood against the patio wall and the older man's arm fell about Ken's shoulder.
"Look into my eyes," Mr. Lowell said. From somewhere in the darkness came two glasses of sparkling champagne.
"Drink," said Mr. Lowell.
