morosely hunted cigarettes and reflected with raised eyebrows
that the studio was never entirely his, not even when he wanted
vehemently to quarrel with Whitaker. And last came Sidney Fahr, round
and merry, who looked casually in, nibbled at a gumdrop and professed
amazement to find so many there. Kenny unreasonably chose to take
affront at his chronic amazement and withdrew to a corner in a state of
gloom and disgust, whence Kreiling, sensitively alive to atmospheric
dissonances, routed him forth with the heated accusation that he was
not _gemuetlich_.

Whitaker looked on through a film of smoke. Ordinarily he knew it was
the sort of evening that fired Kenny to his maddest mood of fun and
sparkle. It was the romance of his Bohemia, the thing upon which he
fed his sense of the picturesque, ignoring the lesser things that
bothered Brian. Men loved him. In the glow of their camaraderie he
was always at his best, excited, joyous, irresponsibly gay and hearty.
But to-night the fun and sparkle passed him by. Garry was right. He
was surely not himself. Could it be--just Brian?

"'Pagliacci!'" demanded someone.

Kreiling laughed indulgently and beckoned Jan to the piano. His big
voice, powerful and tender, swept into the hush like a splendid bird.

Kenny snapped off the lights, plunged into tragic sadness by the
passion of his voice. Somehow its poignant sweetness hurt. The
droplight over the music and the flare of the fire leaped out of the
darkness like medallions. Faintly from a corner came the whisper of
Caesare's violin, offering obligato.

Then he closed his eyes to block but the sight of rain splashing on the
window. 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.

"So!" said Kreiling gently and passed on to the cheese with deliberate
tact, pushing Jan away. A minute later his hand came down with
heartiness on Kenny's shoulder.

"Spitzbube!" he rumbled affectionately.

Kenny laughed but Whitaker saw that his cigarette was shaking.

"Music," he reflected, feeling sympathetic, "always makes him wild and
sentimental. And Max sang like an archangel."

"Now, Kenny," commanded