"Kirkwood, Pless, London. Stay where you are no good coming back everything gone no insurance letter follows vanderlip."
"When I got the news in Paris," Kirkwood volunteered, "I tried the banks; they refused to honor my drafts. I had a little money in hand,—enough to see me home,—so closed the studio and came across. I'm booked on the Minneapolis, sailing from Tilbury at daybreak; the boat-train leaves at eleven-thirty. I had hoped you might be able to dine with me and see me off."
In silence Brentwick returned the cable message. Then, with a thoughtful look, "You are sure this is wise?" he queried.
"It's the only thing I can see."
"But your partner says—"
"Naturally he thinks that by this time I should have learned to paint well enough to support myself for a few months, until he can get things running again. Perhaps I might." Brentwick supported the presumption with a decided gesture. "But have I a right to leave Vanderlip to fight it out alone? For Vanderlip has a wife and kiddies to support; I—"
"Your genius!"
"My ability, such as it is—and that only. It can wait.... No; this means simply that I must come down from the clouds, plant my feet on solid earth, and get to work."
"The sentiment is sound," admitted Brentwick, "the practice of it, folly. Have you stopped to think what part a rising young portrait-painter can contribute toward the rebuilding of a devastated city?"
"The painting can wait," reiterated Kirkwood. "I can work like other men."