Kenny, remembered Whitaker, had searched with tragic eyes for an invited editor who had recklessly agreed to pay in advance for an excursion of Kenny's into illustrating, ostensibly to pay for a cow.

And Kenny's words had been: "My God, Whitaker! Where's Graham ?" Moreover he had struck himself fiercely on the forehead and Whitaker had grub-staked his host to provisions until Graham arrived.
"Can't we eat in the grill ?" asked Whitaker.

"It's raining." Kenny regarded him with a look of pained intelligence.
"I'm posted," he said.
"Then," said Whitaker, "I'll go out and buy something.

I'd rather eat in the studio.

What'll I get ?" Kenny capriciously banned oysters.
"If you want a rarebit," he added, "we have some cheese." He was still searching excitedly for the cheese when Whitaker returned.
"Reynolds," he flung out vindictively, "is positively the most unreliable dealer I know.