Whitaker patiently reassembled his supper.

"I think not," he said.

"You're not here to think," blazed Kenny. "You're here to tell me what
you know."

"I'm here," corrected John Whitaker, "to get a few facts out of my
system for your own good and Brian's. Kenny, how much of the truth can
you stand?"

Kenny threw up his hands with a reminiscent gesture of despair.

"Truth!" he repeated. "Truth!"

"I know," put in Whitaker, "that you regard the truth as something
sacred, to be handled with delicacy and discretion. But--"

Kenny told him sullenly to tell it if he could.

"I don't propose to urge Brian back here for a good many reasons. In
the first place, he's not a painter--"

"John," interrupted Kenny hotly, "you are no judge of that. I,
Kennicott O'Neill, am his father."

"And more's the pity," said Whitaker bluntly, "for you've made a mess
of it. That's another reason."

Kenny turned a dark red.