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Updated: June 21, 2025
The meeting must be painful. . . . Now they were coming along the gravel . . . and now . . . He had undervalued Kenny's tact. The latch of the screen door clicked. Kenny rummaged for cigarettes and struck a match. Joan had slipped to her place at the table before he threw the match away. Then he smiled. His eyes were a curious droll confessional that Brian seemed at once to understand.
They are as different, thank God, as you and I." A gust of wind and rain tore at the windows. The old man fixed his piercing eyes on Kenny's face. Kenny shuddered and looked away. "Hear the rain!" said Adam. "I hear it," said Kenny hopelessly. "And you'll lock me in!" "Yes!" "I'll ring for Hughie and tell him to batter the door down.
He ignored the incredulous arch of Kenny's eyebrows. "Where Brian is, where he will be, I don't propose to tell you, now or at any other time. His wheres and his whens are the boy's own business. His whys I think you know. He won't be back." "He will!" thundered Kenny and thumped upon the table with his fist. Whitaker patiently reassembled his supper. "I think not," he said.
Brian received the offer with a glance of blank dismay and Garry with difficulty repressed a smile. Kenny's fashionable wardrobe, portentous in all truth, had an unmistakable air of originality about it at once foreign and striking. There were times when he looked irresistibly theatric and ducal. Kenny repeated his willingness to lend his wardrobe. "Of course you would," said Garry.
Had Kenny's call been one of reassurance? To Garry, miserably intent upon the ordeal ahead, the big Irishman, whistling softly in his chair, had sent a message through the dark to ease the tension. Already the daredevil light danced wantonly in his eyes. Hannah trotted off in better humor. Dreading the supper hour, dreading the sound of steps upon the walk, Garry smoked and gnawed his lips.
Enchanted rain surely! For it transformed the single pane into many, like a checkerboard of glass, and through it he was staring queerly into the farm. Kreiling mopped his forehead at the end and switched on the lights. The silence he understood and liked but his keen eyes lingered in surprise on Kenny's face. His color was gone, his eyes curiously tired and wistful.
She was eager and intent. "I suppose," said Kenny, "that the Gray Man is the spirit of the mists of Benmore. But to me he's always Twilight. Twilight anywhere." The girl nodded, quick to catch his mood. "And to-night," she said, "his path is the river. He's coming now." Kenny's Gray Man of the Twilight was stealing closer when they landed.
"I think he'll give me a big chance. He's interested." His voice it had in it at times a hint of Kenny's soft and captivating brogue was splendidly boyish and eager now. "Foreign perhaps or war. Maybe Mexico. Anything so I can write the truth, Garry, the big truth that's down so far you have to dig for it, the passion of humanness the humanness of unrest. I can't say it to-night.
"Love, my son," said Kenny wearily, "is poetic like summer lightning. It flashes, blinds in a glory of light and then disappears in time." He tired early and sent them home. Whitaker longed to linger but the moody cordiality of Kenny's good night was only too significant. He departed with regret. "Garry!" called Kenny at the door. Garry turned back.
Studio gossip, having concerned itself with Brian's going, almost to the disruption of the Holbein Club, took up in perturbed detail the glaring problem of Kenny's tantrums. He was keeping everyone excited. "Of course," mused Garry, "you could earn your living as a moving picture actor " "Adams owes me five thousand dollars for his wife's portrait," sputtered Kenny. "But I can't get it.
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