apartment. It isn't soothing enough. All right—I'll find a better place for us to live."
It was amusing to be packed high with bags, saying good-byes to Leon Shaw, to Howard and to the solicitous Rutgers. He had no plans—no destination. He was definitely not in flight. He wasn't running away. He was merely finding himself. Establishing himself. Cutting ties. Breaking chains.
He had told Howard about the room Joe had engaged at the Gladwell.
"Let him sleep there," Howard had said. Ken had finally jeered at Howard: "You make me feel like a bashful bride."
Howard, however, was in earnest. He had so much to say. They could sit up all night talking. And go riding in the park, early the next morning.
The next morning, after a night at the Barrington, Ken decided to leave town at once.
He was, at last, free. No superior person was guiding him about the maze-like city, teaching him ethics, etiquette, and where to eat expensively. Free—yet obliged to leave New York. For the first time, free in New York, money in the bank, money in his pocket, more to be had in advance from Leon Shaw. New York, wonderful, magical New York, city of infinite variety. Yet he must go away—for a time, at least. The car plunged into a crowded street. Its long tonneau, its European style, shiningly bright, attracted all eyes. A smile from a fat girl on the corner, a half-concealed glance from a boy at the curb. Ken stared at the boy; suddenly his lips relaxed into a grin. He saw the long face, the searching eyes of Jules Monroe.
