"No—I didn't," Ken lied. He stooped and picked up the shattered clock.
"Get out of here! You belong back in Texas, in the fields, shovelling cow dung. You're not fit to come into my house. Look what you've done to it. Tracked mud into it—"
"I've done nothing. I went for a ride, that's all."
"My friends were not good enough for you. No, you had to pick up some whore and take her in my car. I'll have Crofton sell it tomorrow."
"But I—"
"Don't explain. I've made a mistake. I wanted to be proud of you."
Ken quietly asked: "As proud as you are of Pierre Fortand?"
Mr. Lowell's eyes opened. His mouth dropped wide.
"Kenneth, you get out of here tonight, before I kill you!"
"All right."
"No one questions me here in Star-ridge. This is my castle. Here, I can do as I please. Men such as you met here tonight wouldn't dare say what you have just said to me."
Ken stood motionless.
"The trouble, Kenneth, is in you. You are neither fish nor fowl. You are a country lout—fit only to associate with pigs."
Ken's fists were clenched.
"You despise the beauty of the only love that matters. You'd rather wallow in a cesspool than live in a palace. Go ahead … go." Mr. Lowell swayed, moved slowly toward the bed.
"I don't want you," he said. "Get out!"
