"I'm sorry I forgot that, Kenny. It's eight hundred and forty odd dollars."
"As usual," bristled Kenny, "they're lying."
Garry refused to discuss the point.
"And Brian, another Irish lunatic!" he marveled, shaking his head. "Did Max write you the name of the French woman?"
"Yes. 'Twas a Madame Morny. I've written her. Garry, darlin', where on earth did you find that inspired collection of green rags?"
"The bank managed somehow."
"Weren't they curious?"
"They were until I said the commission came from you. After that nobody asked anything."
Kenny went with him to the door, dreading the emptiness of the studio. He was a little homesick for the farm.
The order was irresistibly reminiscent of Brian, of the notebook and the struggle that had driven him forth, a penitent, upon the road. The fern was dead, like the first fever of his penance. The thought upset him. Then something drew him to the door of Brian's room and he peered in and closed it with a bang.