It was the thing, as Garry knew, that taxed Brian's patience to the
utmost, plunged him into grotesque dilemmas and kept him keyed to an
abnormal alertness of memory. Always his sense of loyalty revolted at
the notion of denying any tale that Kenny told.

Now Kenny's hurt stare left Brian unrepentant. He lost his temper
utterly. Thereafter he blazed out a hot-headed summary of book-keeping
that made his father gasp.

Kenny's air of conscious rectitude vanished. In an instant he was
defensive and excited, resenting the unexpected need of the one and the
distraction of the other. The sum of his episodic rambling on Brian's
tongue was appalling. He was willing to concede that his imagination
was wayward and romantic. But why in the name of Heaven must a
man--and an Irishman--justify the indiscretions of his wit? Well, the
lad had always had an unnatural trend for fact. Kenny remembered with
resentment the Irish fairies that even in his childhood Brian had been
unable to accept, excellent fairies with feet so big that in time of
storm they stood on their heads and used them for umbrellas!

Staggered by Brian's inflexible air of resolution, Kenny, his fingers
clenched in his hair, began another circle. He reverted to his
grievance. The quarrel this time was sharp and brief. Brian hated
repetitions. Hotly impenitent he flung out of the studio and slammed
his bedroom door, leaving Kenny dazed and defensive and utterly unable
to comprehend the twist of fate by which the dignity of his grievance
had been turned to disadvantage.

Garry glanced at the gray haze in the court beyond the window and rose.