Howard. Not a gin-soaked dream. The living breathing Howard, elegant in a spring suit, seated on the cushions of the car. Beside him a boy of eighteen, a sweet-faced boy, Ken thought; but not much different from a million others … round face, soft brown eyes.
"Mr. Townsend, Mr. Gracey," said Howard.
"How do you do?" the boy said with an English inflection. Ken sat facing them. He was weary, drained, depleted. The car, moving, was unreal. Sharp out of the heavens, dull, dead gold, last gesture of a dying sun.
"How are you, Ken?" asked Howard.
"All right," said Ken.
"I'm on my way to my apartment. Gerald is visiting here, visiting America, I should say. Queer thing about Gerald, he's heir to the Earldom of Somerset, and he'd rather croon. What with everyone, from barbers to undertakers crooning all day long, I see no reason why an English aristocrat can't qualify. We're going to organize a band, aren't we, Jerry?"
"Right-o," said Townsend affably.
"And we'll call it 'The Queen's Own'."
"Ha—ha," politely laughed Townsend.
"I just returned from the other side," Howard explained. "Did not a blessed thing except a quiet lengthy tour of the out-of-the-way spots with Jerry. I'm back in harness now. First this nobleman's noble band, what say, Jerry?"
"I'm on," said Jerry.
"And then a musical show, operetta, I think. No chorus, no dancers, beautiful, beautiful music in the modern sense. Too bad, Ken, because I'd like to have you in my new show."
He was older. He was strangely different. Less self-
