dealers? Here am I on the verge of God knows what from overwork--"

Whitaker spared him disillusion. Painting with Kenny was an
occupation, never work. When it slipped tiresomely into the class of
work and palled, he threw it aside for something more diverting.

"The cheese in all probability," suggested Whitaker mildly, "wouldn't
be under the piano. Or would it? And don't bother anyway. I took the
liberty of buying an emergency wedge while I was out."

Kenny wiped his forehead in amazed relief and piously thanked God he
hadn't wasted his appetite on middle-aged cakes.

"If you hadn't come when you did," he said, "I'd likely had to eat 'em,
thanks to Reynolds. Now I'll send 'em up to H. B." He peered
disgustedly into the bag and removed an irrelevant ace of spades. Its
hibernation there seemed for an instant to annoy him as well it might.
There had been a furore in whist about it barely a week before. Then
he used it irresponsibly for an I.O.U. and impaled it upon a strange
looking spike that seemed to pinion a heterogeneous admission of petty
debt.

Together they made the rarebit. Whitaker waited with foreboding for
the storm to break. But for some reason, though he was constrained and
impatient and feverishly active, Kenny avoided the subject of Brian.
He lost poise and patience all at once, pushed aside his plate and
challenged Whitaker with a look.

"Why did you want to eat in the studio?"