innocence. A baby, a trusting baby, possibly a trifle studied in his attitudes, too ardent in his emotional reactions, too blithe in his quiet acceptance of caresses and contacts. Yet, superficially a trusting, loving child.
What was one to fear from a child?
Ken was unprepared when Max Price's first summons came.
"I can't show anything yet," he told his agent.
"It's for the Commodore," Price said.
"Colman?"
"Gebhardt is branching out for himself. You know, he produced with Vincent Yeager last year. He's taken over the Commodore."
"It's impossible. I'm sorry. I haven't been able to work up a new dance. I can't go."
"Nonsense. You told me Colman always fathered you. He has an interest in the show. Drop in and see him. Maybe he can get Gebhardt to sign you without a tryout."
To return to the Commodore, scene of so many happy days would be like walking through the tomb of an Egyptian Pharoah, a grave above the earth, dustless corpse of a dead dream.
At the Commodore, a new stage-doorman halted Ken. The Colonel, he learned, fading into senility, had gone home to Kentucky to die amid the mingled scent of blue grass and Bourbon whiskey.
On the stage, the same little stage, where he had danced so brilliantly with Norah, half darkness, a pilot lamp casting tall, eerie shadows into the cavernous corners of the auditorium. Through the aisles to the balcony stairs, a door marked "Private" and Ken stood in the offices.
