"It may be," said Whitaker, feeling sorry for him, "that I've put that
rather strongly but I think I've dug into the underlying something
which, linked with your warm-hearted generosity and a real love for
Brian, made you stubborn and unreasonable about his work. Of the big
gap in temperament and the host of petty things that maddened Brian to
the point of distraction, it's unnecessary for me to speak. You must
know that your happy-go-lucky self-indulgence more often than not has
spelled discomfort of a definite sort for Brian. You're generous, I'll
admit. Generous to a fault. But your generosity is always congenial.
It's never the sort that hurts. The only kind of generosity that will
help in this crisis is the kind that hurts. It's up to you, Kenny, to
do some mental house-cleaning, admit the cobwebs and brush them away,
instead of using them fantastically for drapery."

Whitaker thanked his lucky stars he'd gotten on so well. Kenny,
affronted, was usually more capricious and elusive.

"Whitaker," said Kenny, his eyes imploring, "you don't--you can't mean
that Brian isn't coming back?"

Whitaker sighed. After all, Kenny never heard all of anything, just as
he never read all of a letter unless it was asterisked and under-lined
and riveted to his attention by a multitude of pen devices.

"Kenny, have you been listening?"

"No!" lied Kenny.

"Brian," flung out Whitaker wrathfully, "isn't coming back. I thank