toxication. While Howard played his songs, she placed a hand in Ken's. She gazed into his eyes. Finally, she begged him to dance with her. More because of a sense of responsibility toward Howard than for any other reason, Ken refused. Myra, tiny, dark, with a narrow mouth, trim figure and apple breasts, turned away.
"I'd rather not," Ken whispered. "You're too tight to go stepping."
Suddenly she faced him and in a low voice said: "You'd rather dance with your sweetheart, wouldn't you?"
"If I had one—"
She giggled. "Too bad he's so busy at the piano."
At three o'clock the club closed. Ken was drunk. He had been drinking rye highballs. His head was swelled with alcoholic fantasies, his lips were dry. Derek Bland came to his table. "I'll send a cab for you," he suggested.
"Where's Howard?" Ken asked in a tired, distant voice.
"Playing roulette."
"I'll go home alone," Ken said.
The city, as a cab drove him cross-town, was a purplish blur. Street lamps, fading electric signs, the blaze of a neon light, then the hotel. He unlocked the door and saw the apartment through the mesh of his intoxication. He was very drunk. Sitting on the bed, he repeated: "Drunk—drunk—never was drunk before—now that I can drink again I'm gonna get drunk some more." Suddenly he rose from the bed. His head cleared. His eyes saw the sharp outlines of chairs, a dresser, doors, a bed. He had never realized that to the little people of the chorus the simple fact of his residence in Howard's apartment at the Barrington was reason enough for gossip. Never had he dreamed that
