"Thank you, never mind," said the man. In the pale light he was no longer a man, very young, little more than a boy. "I remember you," he said. "I noticed you at dinner. You played in 'Sweeter than Sweet'?"
"Good memory," Ken complimented him.
"It was wonderful to watch you. I'm from Cincinnati, you know. I went to the show every night that week."
"You must have been very young."
"Fifteen then—eighteen now. But I haven't changed much. I still think of you as—"
"As what?" Ken asked.
"W-well," the youth hesitated, "wonderful. That's it, wonderful."
Fie was fair, blond, golden-haired. A fine head. Rich lips. Well set up, too. Soft golden down on his cheeks. Implicitly trusting eyes.
"Have you never been in New York?"
"Oh yes, lots. I came there to see you in 'The King's Own.' But you'd been in an accident."
"Why didn't you look me up?"
"Oh," he protested, "I shouldn't have dared. I always felt I'd meet you. I felt that fate would contrive it, just as you see. Tonight you passed me in the diner. I waited here for you. I could hardly stand it. I was afraid I'd never get a chance to talk to you alone."
Fie was very fair, very trusting.
"It's simple, isn't it?" he asked. "Life, I mean. You wish hard and your wish comes true."
"What did you wish?"
"To meet you, to be with you long enough to feel the full beauty of your friendship. You've been my ideal. You can't do wrong."
