chore occupied a Grecian temple on the Boulevard. The Muse, in person, adorned the portal. She was weather-beaten but still graceful.
Buddy Nolan interrupted a class to greet Mr. Pawne and to show Mr. Gracey his establishment. The School of Terpsichore supplied many dancers to the movies and the theatre. Neophytes in practise clothes, boys in shorts, girls in trim bathing suits, stretched and rolled and bent their bodies earnestly.
"Will this do, Mr. Gracey?" Mr. Pawne whispered, as the tour of the school ended.
"It's great!" Ken cried. "I'll stay here today."
A day at Buddy Nolan's ripped away the veil from Ken's mind. He felt alert, alive for the first time since arriving in California. These languid semi-tropic days and moist nights, the rich food, the luxury in which he lived had deadened the nervous resilience which had characterized his activities back home in Selma. Now that he danced, the crafty face of Mr. Lowell vanished temporarily from his memory. The cajoling voice, the unctuous manner, that mystifying wizardry, compound of wealth and sinister devotion, was withdrawn as if it had never been.
At the conclusion of Ken's first class, Buddy Nolan sent for him.
"You're marvelous," beamed the dancing teacher. "My dear, you are marvelous. I have never had such a beginner since I opened the school. You already possess a definite style. You are as graceful as a woman."
Nolan was tiny, frail, with a light, shrill voice. He dressed in slacks and smoked incessantly. On his ring finger was a huge moonstone, which he rubbed from time to time against his cheek. "My boy," he continued, "we
