The brilliant bubbles charged the dry wine with vitality. Ken's head, cleared by the night ride, swam in the glowing stimulation of the champagne.
"We are to be very happy together, you and I," said Mr. Lowell.
Ken smiled honestly into Mr. Lowell's face. The gray beard's point curled slightly. The watery eyes shone. The arm dropped from Ken's shoulder. Mr. Lowell turned to the linen-covered table.
"Caviar, truffles, wine—" he said as they sat down. "Here is magic, beauty and happiness."
"I sure appreciate your interest, Mr. Lowell," said Ken.
"That is not enough. What do you want to be?"
"I don't know."
"A doctor? A lawyer? An artist?"
"An artist, maybe."
"Paint?"
"No, Mr. Lowell. Since we are here in Hollywood, why can't I learn to act?"
"You can. You shall."
"Or dance. I love to dance."
"As I saw you dancing in the hotel the other night?"
"Yes. I was very happy then."
"And not happy now?"
"I can't explain. This is all too much. I don't understand."
"I know. I know exactly what is troubling you. You are fighting your old self. That is unnecessary. In America, one learns to fight one's self, to beat and abuse one's self, to defeat one's self. For what?"
"I don't know."
"For cruelty's sake. But this is my special country. Here
