horse show. I'd like to meet him. I might be able to persuade him that play-acting is good for you."
"You're quite wrong there, Leigh. He stopped my music lessons because of the matric business."
"Good heavens!" Leigh restrained himself from saying, "What a beast!" He asked: "And you were keen about music?"
"Awfully."
"More than about acting?"
"Much more."
"And you've never mentioned it to me!" His tone expressed hurt.
"We were always talking about sport or the theatre."
Leigh, with a gesture almost of petulance, turned to the sideboard. He refilled his own glass and that of Finch. "You are amazingly reticent," he said coldly. "I thought we were friends."
Finch sipped his Benedictine. He did not question why it was so suddenly given, after having been withheld. He saw Leigh in a glittering aura, a beautiful and desired being who would go through life choosing his paths, his friendships, with princely ease. He exclaimed eagerly: "But we are! We are! At least, I am yours—I mean, you are mine. . . . Only, you can't understand. I didn't think you'd be a bit interested in my family or what I cared about. Like music, you know. . . . I'll be awfully glad to spend that week with you, Leigh, if you want me. I'll manage it somehow."
His long, hollow-cheeked boy's face was flushed with emotion, his eyes glistened with sudden tears.
Impulsively Leigh put his arm about his shoulders. "We are friends then—for always. I can't tell you what you mean to me, Finch. I've been attracted by you from the first moment I saw you. You're unlike any other fellow I know. I'm positive you've genius, either dramatic or musical. We'll see. Tell me all about it, anyhow."
"There's not much to tell—Leigh."
"Call me Arthur."
Finch's eyes lighted. "Oh, may I? Thanks awfully. I'll like that. . . . There's nothing much to tell, Arthur.
