"What's the matter? Cold?"
"I'm tired, I guess."
The color in her cheeks faded. Her eyes were dull brown. "Okay with me, pal. Let's go home."
The Rolls-Royce raced back to Hollywood. They barely spoke again.
At her door, he pressed her hand lightly.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"About what?"
"Don't you know?" Her laugh pealed high. She turned and ran into the courtyard.
For a moment he wanted to follow. He opened the door of the car, then closed it.
"Good-night," he called. She did not answer.
On the way home, he felt ill at ease. He placed the car in the garage very quietly. He descended steps to the bedroom entrance. He opened his door.
A dim light burned. Silhouetted against it was the grotesque figure of Mr. Lowell. He was dressed in what appeared to be a dressing gown, but which was really a Japanese robe, the elaborately brocaded, fantastic, mediaeval costume of a Samurai. Heavy silks, rigid with the weight of overlaid panels of metallic cloth, lent a bizarre quality to the costume. Mr. Lowell, tall, his gray beard making him seem a figure out of Felician Rops, swayed.
He pointed a finger at Ken. His mouth, half open, tried to speak human words. But he was so drunk that he could only bleat—a goat in the form of a man.
