again. The faces peered at him, spoke to him. He replied. He did not hear himself speak. A woman's voice said:
"I hear you are the best dancer on Broadway. I'd love to see you dance. Please do"
"I'll do it … for you." Ken heard himself say.
The living room was Louis XV. Little gold chairs. Someone played a tune. The faces surrounded him, a flesh-colored wall.
He danced. A few kicks. He stumbled. Someone laughed. The music stopped. The voice said: "It's a shame. Give him a chance." Ken regained poise. He liked the voice. He would dance for it. He lifted his leg in the oblique sidekick. His toe struck a chair. The pain made him stumble. The voice said: "He's too tight."
"I'm not," he protested.
Through a gap in the wall of flesh, he fled into the night air. He passed the tables and the buffet, now strewn with dishes containing broken aspic, shreds of salad, empty bottles.
He stood at the low wall, far above the street. He was rather sick. Below, the park lay like a carpet of trees and Broadway, strewn with diamond lamp light, the silvered lake pale in the full moon.
He staggered along the rail to the side of the house. Here were roof tops, water tanks, a field of apartment buildings. He was like a giant in seven-league boots. He could step from the terrace into space and stride across the city from roof to roof, the world suddenly contracted and small. He lifted his leg over the wall. The voice said: "Don't do that!"
"Why not?" he asked. He couldn't see the woman. It was too dark.
