“Time for what?”

“You usually damn the irrefutable thing.  Why you wanted Brian to paint pictures,” went on Whitaker, ignoring Kenny’s outraged sputter, “when he couldn’t, is and always has been a matter of considerable worry and mystery to me—­”

“It needn’t have been.  That, I fancy, John, you can see for yourself.  I worry very little about how your paper is run.”

“But I think I’ve solved it.  It’s your vanity.”

“My God!” said Kenny with a gasp.

“You wanted to have a hand in what he did.  Then you could afford to be gracious.  There are some, Kenny, who must always direct in order to enjoy.”

There was a modicum of enjoyment with Whitaker around, hinted Kenny sullenly.

Whitaker found his irrelevant trick of umbrage trying in the extreme.  He lost his temper and said that which he had meant to leave to inference.

“Kenny, Brian’s success, in which you, curiously enough, seem to have had a visionary faith, would have linked him to you in a sort of artistic dependence in which you shone with inferential genius and generosity.”

It hurt.

“So!” said Kenny, his color high.

“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 God for his sake.”

His loss of temper brought a hornet’s nest about his ears.  Kenny swung to his feet in smoldering fury.  He expressed his opinion of Whitaker, editors, Brian and sons.  The sum of them merged into an unchristian melee of officiousness and black ingratitude.  He recounted the events of the night before with stinging sarcasm in proof of Brian’s regularity.  He ended magnificently by blaming Brian for the disorder of the studio.  There were handles everywhere.  And Brian in an exuberance of amiability had broken a statuette.  Likely Whitaker would see even in that some form of paternal oppression.