we live in our own world. No ugliness. No deceit. Above all, no women. Do you understand?"
"No, Mr. Lowell."
"Well, then … Kari, pour wine." And as Kari poured: "Dear boy, in a few days you shall go to the finest dancing school in California. In the meantime, forgive an old fool for preaching at you. Come … drink."
Whether because of the wine, the soft warmth, the penetrating voice of the old man, the strange deep bed, or because he was not tired, Ken could not sleep. He tossed. He turned and twisted. He threw his covers aside. He lay naked.
The night moved silently on. His confused thoughts tried vainly to flee from this unreal California back to the substance of home. He must think of something comfortable, friendly, secure. He must think of Texas, of long, straight roads on wide prairie, cotton fields, corn fields, a homely town, folks.
He must recall the big game. He must remember the way the team broke training … the hay-ride down to Wall's Creek, the alkie that tasted raw like fire after so long a period of abstinence.
He must remember Hazel Greene, who sat next to him in the hay. She was a cute thing, round and roly-poly. He was drunk. She was drunk. They began to tickle each other, drunk-like. His head was large as a pumpkin, his eyes glassy, when she did that curious thing.
He felt the cleverness of it, the perfected rhythm, the knowing pulse. He wondered how and why she knew so much, little Hazel being only sixteen.
