his way. It was plain he thought to have it now with every instinct up
in arms at the thought of Brian's going.

"I've less genius, less debt and less money," conceded Brian, "but I've
a lot more capacity for worry and I'm tired of always being on my
guard. I'm tired of bookkeeping--"

"Bookkeeping!"

"Bookkeeping lies!" said Brian bluntly. "I've lied myself sometimes,
Kenny, to keep from denying a lie of yours."

The nature of the thrust was unexpected. Kenny changed color and
resented the hyper-critical word. To his mind it was neither filial
nor aesthetic.

"Lies!" he repeated indignantly, regarding his son with a look of
paralyzed inquiry. "Lies!"

"Lies!" insisted Brian. "You know precisely what I mean."

"I suppose, Kenny," said Garry fairly, "that a certain amount of
romancing is for you the wine of existence. Your wit's insistent and
if a thing presents itself, tempting and warmly colored, you can't
refuse it expression simply because it isn't true. You must make a
good story. I've sometimes thought you'd have a qualm or two of
conscience if you didn't, as if it's an artistic obligation you've
ignored--to delight somebody's ears, even for a moment. Perhaps you
don't realize how far afield you travel. But it's pretty hard on
Brian."