“And Ann’s statuette.  Lord, I burn when I think of it.”

“You couldn’t be blamed for a bit of temper.  You’re Irish, lad, and an O’Neill.  ’Tis a splendid inheritance but volcanic too.”  He changed color and began to roam around the room, his mind casting up a painful memory.

“You’ll never guess,” he went on moodily, “what fell upon the head of me after you went.  John Whitaker came up and took a shot at me.  And Garry.  And then after a while when I was quieter, old Adam, stirring me up afresh.  My ears are as used to the truth as my tongue.”

“It’s a darned shame!” said Brian warmly.  Kenny sighed.

“Ah, Brian,” he said wistfully, “I was needin’ it all.  You can’t conceive until you put your mind to it or—­or write it down, what a failure I’ve been—­”

“Failure!”

“As a parent.  Even my penance on the road was—­was like the rest.”

“Your penance!”

“I bought a corncrib and a mule,” flung out Kenny, roaming turbulently around the room, “and thrashed a farmer.  And I hated the rain and the smell of cheese and burned up the corn-crib—­”

“Kenny, what are you talking about?”

Inexorably intent upon the easing of his conscience Kenny told the tale of his penance with terrifying honesty and truth.

Brian listened and dared not smile.

“At first I—­I hoped to find a clue,” finished Kenny, wiping the sweat from his forehead.  “And then after I—­I saw Joan I hoped I wouldn’t.  You’re not blamin’ me, Brian?”

“Not a bit.  I’d have lingered myself.”

“The heart of you!” said Kenny, biting his lips.  “I don’t deserve it.  Lad, dear, the sunsets are past.  I’m understandin’.  And if you want Whitaker’s job, I—­I’m willing.  If you’d rather come back to the studio and free-lance, I—­I want you to know—­” he gulped—­“that things are different.  There’s order there and the—­the chairs are cleared.  Never a chair but what you can sit down on without staring behind you.  You wished that, Brian—­”

Brian turned his head.

“Yes,” he said.  There were tears and laughter in his voice.

“The money and clothes I borrowed,” went on Kenny fervidly, “are paid back.  The clothes are safe in a new chiffonier and here’s the key.  I sealed it in an envelope and well I did.  I was badly needin’ some things you had and Pietro went out and bought them for me.  As for my temper, it’s a lot better.  A lot!  Sid marvels at it.  I—­I do myself.  It all comes from the hell up there on the ridge with Adam.”  He drew a long breath.  “I’ve a record of work that will fill you with pride.  And though I seem to have a lot of money, I haven’t bought a foolish thing since the corncrib.  There’s plebeian regularity enough in my money affairs now, Brian, to please even you!  Though I’m havin’ a bit of a struggle with my check book.  You can see for yourself, can’t you, Brian, ’twould not be the disorderly Bohemia you seem to hate?  ’Twould not be hand-to-mouth.  Mind, I’m not seekin’ to persuade you.  So help me God, I—­I want you to do just what you want to do yourself—­”