rty's insular notions about credit had driven him to
certain frugal devices with the few handkerchiefs he owned, one of
which was spread upon the nearest window pane to dry.

Garry's disgusted inventory missed nothing: a prayer rug for which
Kenny had toured into the south of Persia and led an Arabian Nights'
existence with pursuing bandits whom, by some extraordinary twist of
genius, he had conciliated and painted; an illuminated manuscript in
Gaelic which he claimed had been used by a warrior to ransom a king;
chain armor, weapons of all kinds, climes and periods; an Alpine horn,
reminiscent of the summer Kenny had saved a young painter's life at the
risk of his own; some old masters, a cittern, a Chinese cheng with
tubes and reeds, an ancient psaltery with wires you struck with a
crooked stick that was always lost (Kenny when the mood was upon him
evolved weird music from them all), an Italian dulcimer, a Welsh crwth
that was unpronounceably interesting (some of the strings you twanged
with your thumb and some you played with a bow); Chinese, Japanese,
Indian vases, some alas! sufficiently small for utilitarian purposes,
Salviati glass, feather embroidery, carved chairs and a chest.

A prodigal display--Kenny in his shifting periods of affluence was
always prodigal--but there had never been cups enough with handles in
the littered closet, Garry recalled, until Brian inspired had bought
too many bouillon cups, figuring that one handle always would be left;
Kenny could not remember to buy a teapot when he could and made tea in
a chafing dish; and he had been known to serve highballs in vases.

Garry glanced expectantly at his host and found him but a blur of
oriental color in a film of smoke. As usual, when he was in a temper
or excited, he was smoking furiously. But the threat of disinheritance
was not forthcoming. If anything, the disinheritor was sulking. And
the eyes of the disinheritee were intelligent and disconcerting.

"Well?" said Garry, amazed.

"I've already been disinherited," explained Brian dryly. "Twice. And
I'm leaving tonight--for good."

Garry sat up.

"You mean?" demanded Kenny coldly.

"I mean," flung out Brian, "that I'm tired of it all. I'm sick to
death of painting sunsets."

Garry's startled glance sought and found a mediocre sunset on an easel.
Brian went in for sunsets. He said so himself with an inexplicable air
of weariness and disgust. He knew how to make them.

Kenny's