“Yes,” said Kenny sincerely.  “Things do happen fast.”

She waited his approval and was the first to speak, a wondering hint of reproach in her voice.

“Kenny, please say something!”

“To be truthful, dear,” said Kenny in a queer voice, “you’ve taken my breath away.  I’m thinking—­just thinking.”

“It’s fair—­”

“Yes, dear, it’s fair enough.”

“You don’t disapprove?  Oh, I hope you won’t.  It will make me so happy to help Don through college.”

“It will make you happy!” said Kenny and sighed.

“Ann had so many, many things to say against it.  She said she was trying to see it all with your eyes—­as a guardian.  But I told her you’re hardly ever—­a guardian.  And your Bohemia is democratic, isn’t it?  And painters are respectable and worthy men and nothing like so flighty as you read.  You’ve said so yourself.  And I like to work.  And there are so many charming girls who are models and Jan’s cousin is a Vassar girl—­” In her eagerness to convince him she lost her breath.

“I’ll come for you at Madame Morny’s at four,” Kenny told her, sick at heart.  “And then, dear, I’ll tell you exactly what I think.”

And when he had rung off, he sat down weakly and laughed, his laugh unmusical and sad.  The dreadful, dreadful irony of it!  How could he deny her?  How could he?  He who had surrounded her with women friends, talented and independent, who believed in the gospel of work!  He liked her generosity.  He liked her willingness to work.  He blessed the dear, selfless instincts of her heart, his eyes moist and tender.  And yet . . . and yet!  Kenny laughed again.  He had hidden his own money in the fireplace to send through college a runaway youth he had never seen!

On the way home from Madame Morny’s in a taxi, for the snow had become a blizzard, he made one final desperate effort to break her resolution.  It was futile.  Again she was passionately eager to please him.  Again he found it a problem that involved her happiness and peace of mind.  Again, with his heart sore, be kissed her and surrendered to her wishes with a sigh.

But he found the work for her himself with the older painters.

“Kenny, I’m so glad you asked me to bring mother’s trunks with me,” Joan told him.  “Aranyi has asked me to pose in the gold brocade.”

Something sharp stabbed at Kenny’s heart.

“I meant them,” he said with a sigh, “for costume dances, but Aranyi paints the texture of things with marvelous skill.”

By the end of the month Joan’s work day was full and he was seeing her less than he had, save at night.  Garry begged her to pose for him, carried his case to Kenny and met with blank refusal.

“I’m sorry, old man,” Kenny finished inexorably, “but nothing under forty need apply.  You, my son, are particularly flighty and fickle.  Just now you happen to be raving about Peggy, but every pretty face, I’ve noticed, makes you forget the one before.”