eyes fell upon Ken's. The man was harassed, lonely. His eyes were those of a fugitive. Ken saw in them what Bowler apparently saw in his, for the Englishman smiled and said,
"Make room for 'Er Grace the Marchioness of Gracey and see you keep your train in your 'ands as you does so."
Ken's face, sombre until now, broke into a smile.
"Meaning what?" he asked.
"Aren't you being presented to the Queen?" Bowler winked.
Ken understood.
They were assigned to the same bungalow.
"In London we'd use this for a w. c.," Bowler said, "although the house is rather countryside. I've stood the Farraguts for years. They're awful. They pay me each week or I'd jolly well murder them with arsenic in their porridge."
The house was nice enough. An American house, now refurbished with every conceivable English accent. As the bus arrived, Alicia, "Lady—if possible—Alice" as Bowler called her, took up a position at the head of the old Colonial stairs. Her curiously foreshortened face, so amusing on the stage, attempted haughtiness and failed. Jack Farragut, in swallowtail and ice cold manner, had greeted his guests at the door.
"We'll have Bass's ale or cambric tea. I brought me own Irish," said Bowler.
"Irish?" Ken echoed.
"Dublin whiskey. Raw enough for a rare bit of Bowler, eh?" He produced the bottle. They were in the frame one-story house, two wide, pleasant bedrooms, separated by a center corridor.
