don triumph, were frankly disturbed. They were silent, moody. In the bus which bore them to Long Island, they chatted quietly.
No sooner had the automatic door of the vehicle been closed upon him than Ken realized that his easy acceptance of the invitation was a mistake. He too had labored under a strain. He now needed a drink; to be free, to dance, to mimic, to cast aside the ugly drabness of his emotions for the varicolored hues of "The Other World/' Almost as if an alchemic transmutation was occurring within him, he felt the desire rise. He looked about him. For the first time he became aware of another man, palely blond, slim, narrow shoulders, even blue eyes, nose pertinently direct … typically an Englishman. Bowler was his name, Harvey Bowler, straight man for Alicia Farragut in a sidesplitting sketch in which she had appeared in a London Music Hall.
No word had been passed between Ken and Harvey Bowler. The Englishman had ignored the very existence of the quiet dancer, whose single specialty in the second act was his only solo appearance, who danced beautifully, yet somehow without suggesting the joy of dancing. Ken, now glancing about the interior of the bus, avoiding the eyes of Fanny Hale, the soubrette; glancing contemptuously at fat Lennox Cowle, the gray-haired kewpie, saw Bowler anew. His soft tongue, the flow of his words suggested an interesting personality. Ken rose; better to confront him.
Bowler rode facing the rear of the bus. He was chattering in magpie fashion, quick short phrases. Ken heard him ridicule the American custom of permitting late comers to be seated before the end of the first act. Prosaic subject, shopworn excuse for failure, thought Ken. Then Bowler's
