Kenny glanced at the fragments of a statuette conspicuously rearranged on a Louis XV table almost submerged in the chaotic disorder of the studio, and lost his head.
"Look at that!" he flung out furiously.
Brian had already looked--with guilt--and regretted.
"I broke it--accidentally," he admitted.
"Accidentally! You flung a brush at it." "I flung a brush across the studio," corrected Brian, "just after you went out to pawn my shotgun." "Damn the shotgun!" "I can extend that same courtesy," reminded Brian, "to the statuette." Things were going badly when the expected arbitrator rapped upon the door, and losing ground, Kenny felt that he must needs dramatize his parental right to authority for the benefit of Garry's ears and his own pride.
"Silence!" he thundered, striding toward the door.

He flung it back with the air of a conqueror.

His stage play fell rather flat.

Garry Rittenhouse, in bathrobe and slippers, confronted the pair with a look of weary inquiry.

He sometimes regretted that as a peacemaker he had become an institution.