"I know he would!" Joan's low voice rang in his ears again with new
meaning.

Adam Craig was a miser.

He shrank at the thought. Annoyed to find the old man's eyes boring
into him again, he cleared his throat and looked away.

"So," said Adam Craig, "you are a famous painter!"

"I am a painter," said Kenny stiffly.

"With medals," purred Adam.

"With medals."

A fit of coughing seemed for an interval to threaten the old man's very
life.

"Yonder in the closet," he said huskily, "is a bottle and some glasses.
Bring them here."

Kenny obeyed.

"Sit down."

With the old man's eyes upon him, hungry and expectant, as if he
clutched at the thought of companionship, Kenny reluctantly found a
chair for himself and sat down. Pity made him gentle. Year in and
year out, he remembered with a shiver, Adam Craig sat huddled here in