Star-ridge, like Hollywood, was unreal. Mr. Pawne became an incredible character, a pottering nuisance; Kari's innumerable attentions and his pidgeon English fluttered annoyingly about. The vast house held Ken imprisoned as in a gilded sarcophagus.
He could not meet his dancing-schoolmates on their own plane. He could read in their eyes the fear and contempt they felt for him. He was rich; many of them were very poor. He was "different"; they were "ordinary."
One of the boys—a snub-nosed, pleasant Jimmy Smith, who was very adept at picking up new and sensational tap "breaks"—watched Ken's performance with envy and admiration.
"Been working long?" he asked.
"Two weeks," said Ken curtly and turned away. In Ken's mind at the moment was exhilaration at the discovery that he could kick straight and true to the back of his head. He was surprised to hear Jimmy Smith say: "Because you're old Lowell's latest chicken doesn't mean you can lord it over me, Gracey."
"What do you mean by that?" Ken asked.
"As if you didn't know—" said the other and turned away with a gesture of disgust.
Buddy Nolan met Ken at the gate.
"Going home?"
"Not for an hour or two," Ken replied. "Mr. Pawne said Mr. Lowell might fly in from Tanopah today. He owns mines up there in Nevada."
"How about a drink with me at the Rendezvous?"
"What's that?"
"A spot on Hollywood Boulevard."
"I'm on."
