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Page 94
"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 and
delighted.
It had no shadows for her wondering eyes; the shadows lay behind her.
New York with its shops where with Ann she had gasped and laughed and
colored and stared into mirrors, its lights, its crowds, its theaters,
its opera where Max Kreiling sang and left her with a sob in her heart,
its amazing Bohemia of success of which Kenny was a part, seemed to her
but a never-ending sparkle of romance and kindness. She spent
unwearied hours in Ann's studio, masquerading in a sculptor's smock and
staring at clay and marble with eyes of unbelief. And she tarried for
amazed intervals in the studio upstairs where Margot Gilberte plied
Cellini's art, embedding pennyweights of metal in hot pitch that,
cooling, held it like a dark and shapeless hand while Margot sculptured
elfin leaves and scrolls upon it. Curious things came to the jeweler's
desk where Margot worked; jewels cut and uncut, soft-colored
sea-pebbles, natural lumps of greenish copper, silver and gold and
brass (to Margot's eye there were no baser metals) malachite and coral
and New Zealand jade. Joan handled them all with gasps of reverence.
"And this, Margot? How green it is!"
"A peridot for a dewdrop in a leaf of gold. And there, Question-mark,
are the pink tourmalines I propose to use for rosebuds in this necklace
of silver leaves."
"And blue sapphires!"
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