down so far you have to dig for it, the passion of humanness--the
humanness of unrest. I can't say it to-night. I can only feel it."

Alarmed by this time, Kenny came turbulently into the conversation and
abused John Whitaker for his son's defection. Brian, it was plain, had
been decoyed by bromidic tales of cub reporters and "record-smashing
beats." He contrasted art and journalism and found Brian indifferent
to his scorn.

"It isn't just Whitaker and the sunsets and the desire to exchange the
sham of my 'art' for the truth of something real," said Brian. "It's
everything. It's the studio here and things like--like the shotgun. I
hate the brilliant, disorderly hand-to-mouth sort of Bohemia, Kenny, in
which you seem to thrive. Either we have a lot of money or a lot of
debts--"

Garry nodded.

"I suppose," went on Brian wearily, "that my nature must demand an
orderly security in essentials. Plebeian, of course, but comfortable.
I mean, money in sufficient regularity, chairs you can sit down on
without looking first--" he shrugged.

Further detail and he would be drifting into deep water. Life with
Kenny, who borrowed as freely as he gave, entailed petty harassments
that could not be named.

"Things," finished Brian. "that are mine without a lock and key."

He had meant not to say it. Kenny struck his hand fiercely against the