Howard? Was Howard ashamed to face him? Perhaps he had fled from New York to avoid notoriety. Perhaps—
But why wonder? The world had been charged with violence; foolhardy, he had stalked through it into a flame. The flame had cleansed him pure, white.
Fears gone. Explanations made. Liquor. Liquor. Thirst. That was his vice. The other—he had not been truly vicious. He had been misled; he had gratified monstrous desires borne of liquor.
Simple to understand, to welcome the respite. Simple to lie quiet, drug dulled.
Clearly remembering his solicitous acquaintances who had visited him, a composite of voices, hands, faces. Would he lose his leg? Was the tendon cut? Would he ever be able to dance again? Questions bombarding his ears. His career, his destiny—they worried about that, patronizing Englishmen who hated the Farraguts.
Seriously concerned were his friends of the road tour. Rosemary Rose, pert, helpful; Annie Begley, cheery with grisly humor. Joe, frightened. Frankie, vacant and sad; Ray Leech, Myra Malloy, Jean, nervous because she could not bring Zigzag into the sick room—pretending to care for him, they were thinking, thinking always of themselves.
For weeks he lay motionless, his leg suspended. The operation was postponed again and again. Time passing carried away his "friends." They came less and less frequently. On Christmas, a single visitor, Johnny Keeler, Diana's ex-husband, a mere acquaintance, in his hand a gift, on his lips a word of cheer.
The past, sinking into brooding depth, was leaving him
