caught one of Ken's hands in his own. "We'll shake on it, shall we?"
Ken smiled. "Yes," he said.
It was just twelve when Ken guided the Rolls down the steep grade toward Glendale. As he reached the boulevard, he took a deep breath of the fresh night air. Thank God, he was out of the house.
Exactly what had happened, he wasn't sure. He had sat talking with Gregg for a time. They had invaded the house for a drink. Ken had told Gregg he would go below and get Kari to mix some highballs.
On the stairs sat Mr. Crofton and Gaston Powers. They were drunk and giggled at the sight of Ken leading Gregg to the kitchen.
No one was there. Kari, they decided, had gone to bed. Ken opened innumerable cupboards and ransacked the ice box in a search for a drink. He was about to apologize for his inability to find anything, when Gregg asked him not to bother.
"I don't need another drink," he said. "I'm glad there isn't any more. I've talked truth. We mustn't talk truth. It's dangerous."
He smiled. "I like you, Kenneth," he said. "When I first saw you, I thought you were just another Lowell type. But you're not.
"La, you know, isn't especially good for everyone. He's like a diet of caviar, grouse and plum pudding. You must gain perspective, be amused and amusing if you'd survive. And I'd like to see you survive."
Kenneth rather liked the poet. He wasn't annoying. He seemed sincere.
