Joan’s agonized eyes, wet with tears, brought home to him the need of a steady head . . . and responsibility.  Yes, he must keep his two feet solidly on the ground and face a gigantic responsibility.

“Don’t cry, dear, please!” he said gently.  “It’s just one of the things that can’t be helped.  Don told me.  He overheard.”

Her low cry hurt—­viciously.  And she came flying wildly across the room to his arms, sobbing out her grief and remorse.

“Oh, Kenny, Kenny.” she sobbed.  “I—­want—­you—­both.”

His shaking arms sheltered her.  A heart-broken child!  He must remember that.  And, as Don said, he could have been her father.

“Happiness with the least unhappiness to others, girleen,” he reminded with his cheek against her hair.  “Remember?”

“Yes,” she choked.

“You must go to Brian.  Any foolish notion of sacrifice now will only tangle the lives of all of us.”

“But—­I cannot forget!  Kenny, if only you would hate me!”

“I didn’t mean to love you, mavourneen.  It was like the tale of Killarney.  I left a cover off in my heart and a spring gushed out and flooded my life.”

“I am blaming myself!”

“You must not do that.  You were in love with love.  You must now know how different it—­” But he could not say it, courageous as he felt.

“And the money!” choked Joan.  “Oh, Kenny, Kenny, the ragged money!  And I gave it away.  And you were so good—­so good!”

He frowned, unable to understand at once the relevance of the ragged money and realized that Joan was sobbing into his shoulder the tale of an eavesdropping bartender and a doctor.  He accepted it, dazedly, thunderstruck at the alertness of his Nemesis who missed no single chance to shoot an arrow.

“And Don must give that money back.  I will tell him—­”

“No,” said Kenny.  “No, he must not.”

She stared at him in wonder.

“Mavourneen,” he pleaded wistfully, “may I—­not do that at least for someone who is yours?  Don needs it.”

He could not know that his kindness was to her more poignant torment than his bitterest reproach.  He thought as the color fled from her lips and left her gray and trembling, that she was fainting.  He held her closely in his arms.

She slipped away from him and sat down weakly in a chair.  Dusk lay beyond the windows.  Joan covered her face with her hands.

“The Gray Man,” she whispered.  “He’s peeping in.”

Pain flared intolerably in Kenny’s throat and stabbed into his heart.  He drew the shades with a shudder and lighted the lamp.

In the supreme moment of his agony, came inspiration.  He must save them all with a lie!  Queer that, queer and contradictory!  Yes, after practicing the truth, he must save them all from shipwreck with a lie.

“Girleen,” he said, “there is something now that I must tell you.  I thought never to say it.  You came into my dream that day beneath the willow in gold brocade, with afterglow behind you and an ancient boat.  I am an Irishman—­and a painter.  ’Twas a spot of rare enchantment and I said to myself, I am falling in love—­again.”