"I don't propose to urge Brian back here for a good many reasons. In the first place, he's not a painter—"
"John," interrupted Kenny hotly, "you are no judge of that. I, Kennicott O'Neill, am his father."
"And more's the pity," said Whitaker bluntly, "for you've made a mess of it. That's another reason."
Kenny turned a dark red.
"You mean?"
"I mean, Kenny," said Whitaker, his glance calm and level, "that as a parent for Brian, you are an abject failure."
The word stung. It was the first time in his life that Kenny had faced it. That he, Kennicott O'Neill, Academician, with Heaven knows how many medals of distinction, could fail at anything, was a new thought, bewildering and bitter. This time he escaped from the table and flung up a window. Whitaker, he grumbled, never toasted crackers without burning them. Whitaker brought him back with a look.
"Sit down," he said again. "I don't propose to talk while you roam around the studio and kick things."
Kenny obeyed. He looked a little white.
"I've tried to think this thing out fairly," said Whitaker. "Why as a parent for Brian you're a failure—"