court a little too drab for my taste. I should prefer scarlet—to match my disposition."
Then he winked broadly—"This is all," he added, "entre nous."
"Bored?" Gregory Gregg asked Ken. Mr. Lowell was entering the music room.
"Why should I be bored?" Ken replied.
"Your eyes lack lustre; you have said nothing since dinner."
"I don't know what to say."
"Come, chat with me. I want to hear you talk. Perhaps the garden will put you in the right mood."
Mr. Lowell was playing softly; sobbing tones barely heard in the hushed night. A stone seat faced a mocking Pan in the formal garden, which one reached by means of narrow steps down the side of Star-ridge. Ken sat beside Gregory Gregg.
"I'd like to be your friend," said Gregg.
Ken was unaffected by the music or by the sweet fragrance of the summer flowers.
"Understand me," the poet said. "I mean a true friend. You see, I m still enough of an ingénue to know how you feel tonight. This is your débût, isn't it?"
"You mean—?"
"I mean, this is the first time you've met La's friends face to face."
"Yes."
"Do you find yourself in harmony with them?"
"Do you mean, do I like them?"
"No—I mean—it's so hard, Kenneth, to say what I mean."
"I don't get you."
