"Why not?"
"I don't want to spoil you, child."
All the way to Santa Monica Ken argued with her. "When you're sober, you'll realize a combination of you and me'd be impossible. You're a fresh youngster—I'm an old bat."
"Old?"
"In experience, I'm old as old Cleopatra. And you know how long ago she took an asp to lunch."
"What?" asked Ken, naively.
She patted his cheek and laughed.
Ken recognized the pagodas of the Japanese Gardens on the palisade above the coast road. The ocean lay flat as a silken coverlet. Because Anita Rogers was a woman, he felt he could talk to her.
"I'm not having as good a time as you think," he confided. "Did you ever hear of La Lowell?"
"Who's she?"
"He. A rich old man, who's made millions in oil and silver."
"So that's the one you're living with?"
"Yes."
"You wouldn't do that now, would you, cutie?"
The car rolled across the pavement to the beach.
"What'd you mean by that crack?" he asked as he applied the brakes and switched off the lights.
"Nothing you'd understand."
"Say, what do I look like? Do I look dumb?"
"Simple-minded." She laughed. "No—you're a kid, from the country … a sap."
He suggested a walk along the beach. Just beyond a
