Joan thought him as care-free as a boy.
"We dance in the club gallery," he told her, smiling at the look of wonder in her eyes.
"And the paintings and sculpture?"
"A members' exhibition. The sculptured lion staring from his pedestal at us is Jan's. Look at the superb muscle play of his flank! The midsummer woods—see, how well the lad has painted air!—is Garry's. And my pine picture's over there."
"And Sid?"
Kenny danced her the length of the gallery. A white line of sculpture gleamed on either side behind a rail of brass.
"Down here," he said. "I saved it for the last. The beggar's painted—me!"
It was Kenny in a painter's smock intent upon a palette, vividly, whimsically, delightfully Kenny. There was tenderness and sympathy in Sid's portrayal.
Joan clung to his hand in delight.
And was it all Bohemia, she asked.