den 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.

CHAPTER XXX

PLAYTIME

December found Joan with dark, happy eyes intent upon the rose-colored
phantasmagoria of existence, her worriment past. Donald was safe with
Brian. It hurt her a little that he did not write.

"I think, girleen," said Kenny, intuitional as always, "that he fears
to write, thinking of course you are still at the farm and would try to
tempt him back. And I haven't a doubt he's set his teeth and vowed not
to come to you until he's made good." As indeed he had.

After that, save for a wistful moment now and then, she seemed content,
trusting Brian.

Unhappiness lay behind her like a forgotten shadow. After the
loneliness and the dreams and the hills, her playtime too had come as
Donald's had come to him in Brian's world of spring; and life was
whirling around her, brilliant, breathless, kaleidoscopic and
altogether beautiful, a fantastic fairyland that kept her dazzled