He stood naked before the room-high mirror and could have cried with delight for the supple youthfulness of his body. Thus naked, he became truly beautiful; no blemish in the straight, graceful lines of his form. His shoulders were strong and his arms tapering. His chest was full and hairless—his stomach flat and firm. His sex was wreathed in dark, reddish-brown hair that curled with the natural abandon of a Greek statue's.
His legs … here came the secret of Kenneth Gracey's joy in living. These legs of his—long, endowed with mighty sinews and an uncommon elasticity—they gave him that speed which had won him a place on the track team and the basket-ball team at Selma High. They had born him to the prized goal of success in athletics. Now, as in the flush of happy vitality he began to move rhythmically, first with arms, then with legs, he felt that urge toward a dance, a wild, naked dance of pagan ecstasy. He watched himself move, facile, swaying. His legs now arched in a sweeping kick, a pivoting thrust high above his head. He spun about, hearing an unheard rhythm in the quickening pulses of his heart.
As he did so, Mr. Lowell entered the bathroom. Ken continued to dance. The old man watched him closely. Suddenly Ken stopped.
"Oh, boy!" he cried gaily.
"Happy?" Mr. Lowell asked.
Ken turned.
"There isn't anything else I want." He slipped into his dressing robe. "Thanks to you."
"Dear boy," said Mr. Lowell, "I have given you nothing—yet."
