was so "decent," so "swell," so "grand," that, when he was around, she wouldn't have dared dissipate even to the extent of drinking two cups of coffee for breakfast.
All the time, she realized, in the back of that dumb head of hers, a dizzy idea had been buzzing. She was in love with him. She was crazy about him. She wanted to marry him, to settle down, after they had made a great success; to have some kids, a home and a fire-place in front of which she could place his slippers every night.
She never admitted this idea even to herself. Nevertheless she had it all figured out. He was just a kid, nothing wrong with him at all. She would watch over him like a mother, share his joys and his disappointments like a true sister and slowly, ever so slowly, develop into a priceless friend. Nature would provide that they should become lovers. Inevitably he would lose his shyness; probably just as soon as they got away from screwy Hollywood. When the time came, she would cry: "I love you, Ken. I'll always love you." They would rush off to the license bureau, get married and live forever after in a mad delirium of happiness.
When Ken hinted that he must soon go to work or be forced to return to Texas, she was panic-stricken. For the first time she recalled the blackness of her reputation. She accused herself of having betrayed him, of having saddled herself—an old broken down tenth-rater—upon a handsome, gifted youth.
She hated Ed Feinberg, the sleazy, lying, blood-sucking small-timer. Still he was a man; if he had called her up in the old days, in Seattle, she'd have entertained him. She'd trade a break-in date for a half hour's diversion—it
