be wholly unaffected. What Kenny liked he kept if he could, even his
irresponsible youth and gayety.

Time had helped him there. His auburn hair was still bright and thick.
And his eyes were as blue and merry now as when with pagan reverence he
had tramped and sketched as a lad among the ruined altars of the druids.

He had meant to wither his son with continued dignity and calm. The
vagaries of Irish temper ordained otherwise. Kenny glanced at the
fragments of a statuette conspicuously rearranged on a Louis XV table
almost submerged in the chaotic disorder of the studio, and lost his
head.

"Look at that!" he flung out furiously.

Brian had already looked--with guilt--and regretted.

"I broke it--accidentally," he admitted.

"Accidentally! You flung a brush at it."

"I flung a brush across the studio," corrected Brian, "just after you
went out to pawn my shotgun."

"Damn the shotgun!"

"I can extend that same courtesy," reminded Brian, "to the statuette."

Things were going badly when the expected arbitrator rapped upon the
door, and losing ground, Kenny felt that he must needs dramatize his