"Adams owes me five thousand dollars for his wife's portrait," sputtered Kenny. "But I can't get it. He's been sick for weeks. Typhoid."
"And in the meantime?"
The shaft went home. Kenny sent for a model—and sent her home.
"She was too ornamental and decidedly sympathetic," he explained gloomily to Garry. "I'm just in the mood to make a colossal fool of myself. She was the sort of girl you'd invite to tea to meet your brother's wife."
"Kenny!"
"She was!" insisted Kenny.
"Any number of models are and you know it. And that girl is Jan's cousin."
"I make a point of never losing my head over a model," declared Kenny with an air. "It's a hindrance to work. You concentrate on a type and every picture you do advertises your devotion. Suppose I married her!"
"Heaven help her!" snapped Garry, and went out, slamming the door.
Kenny offended, followed him home. He felt aggrieved and talkative.