THE STUDIO AGAIN
The night-watchman at the Holbein Club greeted the prodigal with a
broad smile of welcome.
"Wonder, I says, to the new bell-hop, I do wonder where Mr. O'Neill's
got to. Everybody's been wonderin'. Mr. Rittenhouse most of all," he
added, stopping the elevator at Kenny's floor. "I heard him grumblin'
just last night in the elevator to Mr. Fahr. Mr. Fahr seemed to feel
that you were off with the heathen somewhere paintin' 'em all up into
pictures."
Kenny found the studio in a soulless state of order and blamed it
instantly upon Garry. Fifteen minutes later, gorgeous in his frayed
oriental bathrobe and his Persian slippers, he banged on the wall and
evoked a muffled shout of greeting. As usual Garry might or might not
be in bed. Kenny's time values had not altered.
Garry came at once in bathrobe and slippers.
"Lord, Kenny," he exclaimed warmly, "I'm glad you're back and sane.
But I'm mad as a wet hen!"
"At me? My dear Garry!"
"You didn't write, you know, after you said you would. You never
do--"
"I telegraphed instead."
"Your telegram," reminded Garry, "said 'O.K. Kenny.' And I'm chuck
full of curiosity and questions. Sit down. Every chair in the
studio's on a furlough."
"So I see."
"You left the studio in something of a mess. Sid tried to straighten
it out and nearly had brain fever. Got to babbling and wringing his
hands and we sent for Haggerty. She went on an order bust for two
days."
"The old shrew! I suppose everything in the place is under something."
He found cigarettes and a chair and settled back with an air of lazy
comfort.
Garry made no attempt to disguise his impatience.
"Kenny," he said, "you're the limit. If I'd ever telephoned into your
slumber and asked you to find four thousand ragged dollars and mail
them to me, and if I'd said I'd accidentally acquired a ward and was
bringing her back with me, you wouldn't sit there in patience and wait
for facts. Mind, old dear, I want the truth. It's likely to be a lot
queerer than anything you can make up."
Kenny sighed--and told the truth. Garry listened in amazement.
"Kenny," he said slowly, "you've roamed off before and gotten yourself
into some extraordinary messes and I honestly thought that summer in
China had taught you a lesson. But this tale of Adam Craig and the
miser money is the king-pin of them all. You've absolutely got to
house-clean that instinct for melodrama out of existence. It's a
peril; and furthermore expensive."
"Don't rub it in," said Kenny. "Whatever you can think to say, I've
already told myself. Though," he added pensively, "it's queer, Garry.
Wherever I go, things begin to thicken up before I've had a chance to
be at fault in any way. And I'm so darned sick of anticlimaxes."
"You keep yourself keyed up to such a pitch that anything normal's got
to be an anticlimax! Think of you digging dots when you knew there
wasn't any money! Think of you with a ward! Oh, my Lord!" finished
Garry with a gasp. "It's incredible. It--it really is."
Kenny flushed and gnawed nervously at his lips. Could he tell Garry of
Samhain?
"And think of you," said Garry, his voice changing, "salting the old
man's fireplace with your own money so that his niece could come down
here and study French and music! You wonderful, soft-hearted Irish
lunatic! I love you for it!"
Kenny rose at once and began to bluster around the studio, damning
Haggerty. There was something disturbingly warm and honest in Garry's
eyes. Then with a sudden gesture of impatience he came back and his
troubled glance begged for understanding.
"Garry," he blurted, "there's one thing that probably we shan't be
telling people for a year at least. And that is--that I love this girl
better than my life and I'm going to marry her."
He waited with a fierce hurt challenge in his eyes for irreverence and
incredulity and even perhaps good-natured jeers, but Garry, sensing
something big and unfamiliar, held out his hand. Kenny wrung it in
passionate relief.
"What's my balance?" he demanded.
"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.