She found her key and opened the hall door. Then she slowly climbed the flight of stairs and let herself into the one-room apartment. Her thoughts had depressed her until she seemed to feel a pain that was physical. She dropped her wrap on the divan that served as a couch and bed in one and walked over to a table on which stood a picture of a clean-cut, blond boy who seemed to look right back at her with a pair of gay, smiling eyes. She picked the picture up and looked long at it.

“If we could only have worked out our lives the way we should have,” she said softly, “I could have done without all this gladly.”

She took the picture with her and lay down on the divan. She held it up and continued to study the lively, smiling features. A sensation of deep pity for the boy in the picture, for herself, for the petty desire for fame as a substitute for the things she had really wanted, brought slow tears to her eyes. Holding the picture close to her, she closed her eyes, waiting for sleep to take her, and remembering.…

How long ago had it been? Six months? A year? A year and a half? The time just seemed to blur, now that it was all over. But she could remember the beginning so clearly. She had gone out for dinner with—what was his name?—Mike somebody. Mike Jurgens, a bit player, a nobody who had appeared in three or four B-grade movies and who was giving her a big line about how much he could help her career.

They had eaten, and they had gone then to the Lafayette for dancing. A new band was there, a sensational outfit that was rising fast and getting plenty of praise—Bob McKay and his orchestra. A bunch of high-stepping youngsters who had risen right out of nowhere to conquer the big time in L.A.

Terry didn’t know much about them, except that they were the current sensation. But before the evening was over, she knew a lot more.

They came in and took a table. The orchestra was hitting it up strong, practically at fever pitch in the frenzy of its excitement. At the head of the orchestra stood Bob McKay, young, blond, almost unlawfully handsome. His face was flushed and glossy with sweat, but his eyes were bright and gay and his fingers danced over the keys of the clarinet, weaving a wild, excited tune that climbed toward the stratosphere. Terry watched in amazement. She had never seen so much sheer dynamic energy locked up in one person before. Up there on the platform, Bob McKay seemed to be revealing his naked soul, flinging his inmost self out in torrid music.