over the paintings on the wall, marveled at the hundreds of books, examined the shell collection. Don poured a sherry for each of them and sat down in school-masterly fashion at his table.

His tour over, Ken sat and sipped his drink.

"I knew there was something different about you," he said.

"What do you mean?" replied Don, warily. Ken drained his glass. He blew a few smoke rings before replying.

you're

"All this. I never saw a place like this before. It's interesting interesting." His voice died into a whisper, and his hand that held the cigarette dropped to his side. Don jumped up and took the cigarette before it could burn the persian-printed spread. Ken was asleep.

After that night, Don went no more to the hotel bar. He didn't have to, because Ken came to him. He came to Don when, as he put it, he was "filled up to here" with ordinary people and things. Don never knew when he would come or why he came. He might stay away for weeks, then suddenly be there, reading or sleeping on the bed when Don came hime from work. He had told Don the second time he came that he knew he was "that way." Don had been shaken. He had made no advances, and when he asked how he knew, Ken just shrugged his shoulders and replied that he had met "a lot of them" in the Navy.

"And how do you feel about people like me?" Don had asked.

"When they're like you, fine." Ken evaded, and Don questioned no more. He couldn't help himself. He was completely bewitched with this manyfaceted youngster. His resolutions were all shot to hell. He was comforted only in the thought that Ken sought him out and needed him, yet made no advances. They never met in public, except accidentally, and then they behaved like casual friends. Don felt resurrected. There was new meaning to his days. It was a joy to him to give this boy the things he had missed; the poetry, the music, the books.

hat happened seemed to happen suddenly, but in retrospect, Don realized it had been coming on over a period of weeks. Angelo, at Harry's bar, was not as cordial as he used to be. Don thought it was because he went there seldomly now and that Angelo suspected him of patronizing a rival place. Here and there, in stores, and on the street, a few people looked at him curiously and then looked away. And once, when he passed by a group of youths outside of the drugstore, he heard some snickers and a low wolf-whistle. But there were a couple of young girls behind him and he thought nothing of it. Then, one night, when he came home from working overtime, he saw a light in his house. When he let himself in, it was not Ken. A young man whom Don knew only slightly was sitting in his armchair, drinking his wine. Don knew they called him Chuck and hadn't ever spoken more than a "Hi!" to him. His jaw dropped.

"What are you doing here!" he demanded. His heart was pounding with indignation. Chuck grinned abashedly, and his face reddened.

"I-I'm sorry," he stammered. "B-but Ken said he knew it would be all right with you..."

"Did Ken give you the key to my house?"

"Yes. But he said you wouldn't mind. He wanted me to meet you."

Now that Don saw that the chap was nervous and shy, his anger abated a little.

"Well it's a hell of way to introduce people," he snapped. "Ken had no right to give you or anybody else my key. Why'd he want you to meet me?" "Well, we're sort of buadies, you know," Chuck explained. "He told me what an interesting place you have here, and all." Don felt a fear growing within him. He poured himself a glass of wine and turned his back so that the young man would not see his shaking hands.

"And all what?" he asked, facing Chuck, still standing.

"Well, what good company you are, and how swell you treat him. He . . he said you would . . . like me." Chuck was rolling his wine glass between his hands and his eyes were turned floorward.

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