XV
KEN was very calm, very self-possessed that night. He wafted a carefree greeting to Rosemary, a light kiss for Norah's cheek, a flippant word to Frankie Regan. When Howard appeared on the backstage stairs, Ken was powdering his face, his make-up complete.
"I couldn't wait to see you," Howard said. "You've really made me feel very bad."
"I'm sorry you misunderstood." Ken was contrite.
"Why be temperamental? I mean by moving out. I don't care about the drinking. Nor what happened last night. We'll keep out of night clubs, if you please. We'll have our parties at home."
"Old mother Vee and her brood," Ken mocked. "No."
The stage manager called, "Curtain! Curtain!" "I've got to go," Ken said. "See you after the show."
As he danced in front of the chorus line, he heard Frankie Regan whisper: "Look at A one hundred and seven. Get it, Ken."
Ken flung legs high. He balanced himself deftly. In the first row center, directly back of the orchestra leader, he saw steel blue eyes watching him. Later, from the wings, he noticed a full-faced, light-haired, monocled man of about forty. "Ernie Emerson," Frankie whispered. Above the roar of applause, Ken asked: "Who's he?" "Boston jeweler," Ray Leech said.
At intermission, an usher came to Ken's dressing-room.
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