"Always," Kenny remembered, "he must be taking care of someone."

It gave him a sharp pang of jealousy that that someone was a stranger.

But the thrill of penance was in his blood. If Brian was big enough to
see himself in the wrong, no less was Kennicott O'Neill, his
unsuccessful father. And he had driven Brian forth upon the road. For
that he must atone.

That the solution of everything now lay at hand, Kenny never doubted.
Already he had rocketed sentimentally into inspiration. If a certain
vagueness of detail sent him roving abstractedly around the studio with
the letter in his hand, the inspiration in itself was amazingly clear.
Yes, he would fare forth and find Brian. He would tramp every mile of
the road as Brian had done. He would find the farmhouse, the wood and
the river! There happily would be some clue or other that he needed.
And Kenny, in rags and penitential, his feet blistered by the hardships
of the road, would overtake his son and apologize for everything. Nay,
more, he would promise anything. After that the rest would be easy.
Brian had written it there in a letter. Kenny could wind his son
around his finger. Yes, it was all quite clear. And Brian helpfully
would be shocked and thrilled at the sacrificial tribute of penance.
Kenny pursed his lips and nodded. He would even concede the sunsets.
That, after John Whitaker's cold-blooded misinterpretation, was
necessary to his own self-respect--and Brian's happiness.

Ah, love was the only thing in the world that counted, love and art.
Not the love of woman, which was after all but an intermittent
intoxicant, but the love of one's own.