"And you quarreled!" said Joan.
"Yes," said Kenny.
"So did Donald and I. How queer that is! Was it your fault, Kenny? Or was it Brian's?"
"It was my fault," said Kenny and lost his color. "But I know now that it wasn't the quarrel then that counted. It was the things that had gone before."
"How much you love him!" said Joan gently.
"Yes," said Kenny. "In this world of hideous complexities and uncertainty and—chains—of that at least I am sure."
"That," said Joan, "I like."
Mingled inextricably with this new fervor in his soul for truth, was the memory of the inspirational stage mother. The idle claim bothered him more and more. But there he was never brave enough to tell the truth.
Well, it was a queer world and he—Kennicott O'Neill—was thrall to a pitiful old fiend with the soul of a Caliban. He was unspeakably grateful for the relief of the hours when, with his conscience up in arms, he could talk to Joan of Brian and ease his misdeeds of the past by praise and appreciation.
A jewel of a lad! Everybody loved his humor, his compassion and his common sense.