An inclination to blurt out the truth with panicky abruptness when he wanted to lie, plunged him into more than one predicament.
"I'm always explaining to somebody," he complained bitterly to Garry, "why I tell the truth--" "You told Kenneth his dancing urchin was rotten--" "It was," insisted Kenny.

"Garry, why is truth always unpleasant?
Why can't it be as romantic and agreeable as the things you want to say ?" "Why," countered Garry, "isn't peace as romantic as war?
Ask somebody who knows.

I don't." He stared curiously at Kenny and shook his head.

A heavy hand with the truth, that Irishman; and about as understandable in these splendid, tender days of his idiocy and bliss, as March wind, comets or star-dust.

His passion for truth was literally a passion, relentless and exact.