"That isn't true," Howard said. "Come with me."
At the end of the room was a door. It opened into the garden. The night, late October, was chill. Ken, warmed within by the liquor, shivered.
"They've put me in the Parsonage, of course," Howard said. "Where are you?"
"With an English vixen, Bowler."
"Vixen?"
"Don't you know?"
"Hired him because of Jack and Alicia."
"Who hired Chick De Vaughn?"
"I don't know. Who is he?"
"I don't know who he is—or care."
They were at the door of the bungalow. Ken stopped and faced Howard.
"Don't come in," he said. "I'm mad. I'm crazy."
"Ken," Howard said, "the curtain went up tonight. The show's on. Let's play it for all it's worth."
"I'm drunk," Ken said. "You mustn't be with me now."
"I'm talking about us."
"There is no us."
"Is it because Jack invited that chorus boy? You don't think …?"
"I understand perfectly why he is here. You brought him, not Jack Farragut. In the back of your head you were/ being cute. You wanted to out-fox me. Make me feel contrite. Can't you see, Howard?" he cried. "Can't you understand? I'm the devil … your devil."
"My very personal devil, then."
"No—your enemy—your enemy."
Without knowing why or how he did it, Ken managed to slam the bungalow door in Howard's face.
