for the sudden run-out," he wrote. "I have been upset during the past few days. I would rather die than bother you. Until I get over this funny feeling, I would rather live alone. Thank you for everything. And forgive me for what may seem like a crazy idea—walking out without even saying anything to you. But it is all for the best. I'll be at the Algonquin. K."
A taxi driver bore his two trunks downstairs. The Barrington, the Mercedes, the perfect meals, the dreamless bed, all vanished into a past irrevocably gone.
Cool in a simple hotel room, Ken waited for Howard's call. At five o'clock it came.
"I just read your reasonless note. What does it mean? I don't care if you get drunk every night in the week."
"Old dear, you got me wrong," Ken protested with false nonchalance. "I'm a blubbering fool. Don't trust me."
Howard, at the end of a telephone circuit, laughed. "I don't. I love untrustable friends. Makes life varied."
"Then put it this way: I want to be no man's. I'm free."
"But let's talk about it. Have dinner with me … at … at L'Aiglon."
"Tomorrow night. Tonight, I'm vicious, hangoverish."
Howard regretfully said: "Then I'll see you at the theatre tonight?"
"Of course."
He disconnected. Ken faced the silent phone. He shrugged his shoulders. This was the easiest course out of difficult seas. He would slowly, gently guide Howard to an understanding of what an association with him might mean.
