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LATE in the afternoon Ken rode in Central Park, Howard at his side. Their horses were eager, the early March day was sharp. Jogging thus through the dun bridle path, passing trimly tailored women seated astride their mounts, meeting a cavalcade of youths from the riding academy of a private school, gazing up at the newly rising towers of apartment buildings, Ken was roundly, solidly contented. This confidence he felt, this rock-firmness of his flesh, this sharpness of sight and keenness of hearing was youth. All of him was resurgently alive.

"Come on, Howard!" he cried. They began to race. The horses carried them easily, assimilating the good spirits of the young men who rode on their backs.

A new discovery, this strength of youth. A new discovery, this self-satisfaction. Its cause was so remote that no inkling of it lay on the surface of Ken's mind. He knew only that a world of edges and corners was past; a world of smooth curves, the luxury of not being hurt, was at hand.

Still later in the day, while Howard was working or when he was conferring with his business manager or talking on the telephone to Leon Shaw; or at home, ordering dinner, asking: "Ken, will you dine with me?"—when they sat opposite each other, tasting the turtle soup, recalling the brisk happy mood of the day, Ken felt the new happiness grow within him.