phone in Chicago. He was roaring about your being drunk, but I knew otherwise."
Ken thought he looked the same. Leaner, perhaps.
"I never did hear from you. Knew you weren't a writer. But you could have kept me informed."
Then he didn't know, Ken concluded. He had talked to no one, heard none of the gossip … or the truth. The chatter continued. Howard directed the taxi to the Barrington. Almost without Ken's realizing that he was again in New York, that Howard had returned from Europe, that the road tour had ended, he found himself sitting beside Howard, hearing his voice, exactly as if he had not fled from him months before.
New York, as the cab slowly opened a path in the traffic, was rising high above him, narrow streets, the creaking Third Avenue "L" distantly dull now in the clouded noon light, as they turned east away from Park Avenue. A right turn and the cab came to a stop. Ken, still silent, still hearing Howard's enthusiastic recital of events past, London nights, incidents, anecdotes pouring into his ears, stepped out of the cab. A negro ran to meet him.
"Mr. Gracey, sir, a pleasure to see you." It was Rutgers. The ornate facade of the building before which he stood was that of the Barrington.
"Welcome home, Mr. Gracey," Rutgers beamed. "Welcome home."
"I can't stay here, Howard," Ken said. "I don't want to."
"But you must have a reason."
"I'm tired out. I want to be by myself." Ken's voice rasped. He was impatient. He wondered how sincere he
