"I hope you won't mind if I drive fast," Foster said. "I want to be home before dark." We started up and wheeled away from the curb like a torpedo sliding out of the launching tube.
I got out of the car in the drive at Foster's house, and looked around at the wide clipped lawn, the flower beds that were vivid even by moonlight, the line of tall poplars and the big white house.
"I wish I hadn't come," I said. "This kind of place reminds me of all the things I haven't gotten out of life."
"Your life's still ahead of you," Foster said. He opened the slab of mahogany that was the front door, and I followed him inside. At the end of a short hall he flipped a switch that flooded the room before us with soft light. I stared at an expanse of pale grey carpet about the size of a tennis court, on which rested glowing Danish teak furniture upholstered in rich colors. The walls were a rough-textured grey; here and there were expensively framed abstractions. The air was cool with the heavy coolness of air conditioning. Foster crossed to a bar that looked modest in the setting, in spite of being bigger than those in most of the places I'd seen lately.
"Would you care for a drink?" he said.
I looked down at my limp, stained suit and grimy cuffs.
"Look, Mr. Foster," I said. "I just realized something. If you've got a stable, I'll go sleep in it—"
Foster laughed. "Come on; I'll show you the bath."