darkened by fear that his father would worry about him. What should he do? Telephone? Wire?
"Do nothing, dear boy," Mr. Lowell advised. "Forget him. That sentimental attachment you feel for him now will soon pass. He is not worthy of you."
Ken's protest at this slur upon his father was written upon his face.
"Your father did not understand you. I do."
"I know," said Ken.
"Unfortunately, your father can never understand you. He is a little Texas lawyer. You are to be a man of the world.
"Tonight, we shall go down into the city. I shall show you Los Angeles and Hollywood, Beverly Hills and the sea. Have you ever seen the sea?"
"No," Ken replied.
He wanted to ask Mr. Lowell if Los Angeles, Hollywood, Beverly Hills and the sea all belonged to him. But this he did not do. He accompanied the old man to the patio where a limousine awaited them.
They were driven down through Chevy Chase to a city of colored lights.
"Like you, I was born on flat prairie," Mr. Lowell told Ken. "Our homeland is a dreary one … no variety … no depth. That is why I choose now to live in beauty. Here in Southern California is beauty; in New York, in Palm Beach, in Paris. We Americans of the Middle West and South are bitten by the monotonous ugliness of our country. We are stern uncompromising people who are born, live and die with little beauty. We are responsible for hatred, rancor, bitterness. We fill the world with narrow shallow thoughts. I am not entirely pleased with these Cali-
