Horribly depressed he thumped on the wall for Garry, who came at once, wondering wryly if Brian had come in and the need again was mediation.

“You might as well know,” began Kenny at once, “that Brian didn’t go up to Reynolds for me this noon—­”

Garry stared.

“It was a lie,” flung out Kenny with a jerk, “a damnable, deliberate, indecent lie.  Whitaker says he’s gone for good.”  His look was wistful and indignant.  “Garry, what’s wrong?” he demanded.  “What on earth is it?  Why couldn’t things have gone on as they were, without God knows how many people picking me for a target?  As far as I can see I’m merely maintaining my usual average of imperfection and all the rest of the world has gone mad.”

“I suppose, Kenny,” began Garry lamely, “you must be starting a new cycle.  Jan could tell you.  He talks a lot about the cycle of dates and the philosophy of vibrations—­”

“I know that I regard the truth as something sacred, to be handled with delicacy and discretion,” began Kenny with bitter fluency.  “I’m an unsuccessful parent with an over-supply of hair and teeth, afflicted with hairbrained, unquenchable youth.  I’d be a perennial in the Land of the Young and could hobnob indefinitely with his Flighty Highness, the King of Youth.  I’m forty-four years young and highly temperamentalized.  I’ve made a mess of parenting Brian and I’m an abject failure.”

Garry looked at him.

“Just what are you talking about?” he asked.

“I know,” pursued Kenny elaborately, “that it’s unfortunate I haven’t wrecked my own life when I’m an accidental success at wrecking Brian’s.  I’m full of cobwebs.  I damn irrefutable things and I’ve forced Brian to a profession of sunsets to gratify my vanity.  Can you personally, Garry, think of anything else?”

“Sit down!” said Garry.  “You’re about as logical as a lunatic—­”

“Tell Whitaker, do,” begged Kenny.  “There’s one he missed.  Garry, what’s back of all this turmoil?  What’s the real reason for Brian’s brain-storm?  I’m sick to death of Whitaker’s wordy arabesque and abuse.  I want facts.”

“Brian said it all last night,” reminded Garry.  “It’s just another case of a last straw.”

“You honestly mean that the ancestors of the straw are the sunsets, the disorder here—­the—­the—­” He thumped the table.  “Garry, I don’t lie.  I swear I don’t.  I hate a liar.  I mean a dishonorable liar.  A lie is an untruth that harms.  That’s my definition.  Any man embroiders sordid fact on occasion.”

“On occasion!” admitted Garry.

Kenny, with his eye upon the fern in the window, missed the significance.  It had registered his sincere regret—­that fern—­at the need of pawning Brian’s fishing rods and golf clubs.  Like Brian!  He had failed utterly to comprehend the delicacy of the tribute.