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"SWEETER THAN SWEET" floated into Boston on a sea of liquor. The opening night's performance was a ribald echo of the show which had entertained New York audiences for nine months. Yet the Boston first-nighters were pleased and the newspaper critics, skillfully lured into the box-office where six quarts of imported Scotch stood on a desk, wrote notices in which the words, "brilliant," "clever," "modern," "unique" were scattered.

Ken rented a house on the Fenway. Frankie lived with him. Joe occupied the maid's room; he was valet, chauffeur and cook.

Ken played the opening performance with a skillful simulation of the sober, earnest performer. Only Nor ah noticed his condition. He had arrived in Boston drunk and drunk he still was. He passed Norah's dressing-room on the way to the street; he looked in. She was crying, her eyes rimmed with red. He entered, laughed at her for being homesick, kissed her and hurried out.

Three days passed before his mind cleared. Four nights of "open house" on the Fenway, nights ending after dawn, days passed in sodden sleep.

On Wednesday, during the performance, a liveried chauffeur called at the theatre. He handed Ken a note.

"I have made an appointment for you with Madame Richards tomorrow at five," Ken read. "If you can't keep it, notify my man." At the bottom was the over-elaborate