Any Irishman, he decided fiercely, would understand his terrified clinging to the things of the heart that belonged to him by birth.

It was part of his race and creed.

He hated to be alone.
And Brian was all he had.

How lightly he had prized that one possession until it became a thing denied, Kenny, sentimentalizing his need, forgot.
Studio gossip, having concerned itself with Brian's going, almost to the disruption of the Holbein Club, took up in perturbed detail the glaring problem of Kenny's tantrums.

He was keeping everyone excited.
"Of course," mused Garry, "you could earn your living as a moving picture actor--" "Adams owes me five thousand dollars for his wife's portrait," sputtered Kenny.