"I'll stay!" "Good!" said Adam, moistening his lips.

"Good! You know, Kenny," he whispered, shivering, "I--I hate the rain." "Yes," said Kenny wretchedly, "so do I." "Kenny," said the old man later when Kenny had carried the lamp back and made sure that Joan had gone to her room, "don't sulk.

You're old enough to know better." "I'm not sulking." "You are." "Very well, then, I am." "You've had enough music for one night." Kenny did not trouble to reply.

Whatever he said would be combated.
"Music," insisted Adam, "makes you as noisy as a magpie.

If you're not whistling, you're singing some damned rake of an Irish song and if you're not singing, you're at the piano battering out a scrap-heap of tunes." "From the first day until the last when he goes to sleep with a daisy quilt over him," said Kenny stiffly, "an Irishman lives his life to music." "Humph!" said the old man, ready for battle, "the music of his own voice, telling lies." Reckless, Kenny used his one weapon of composure.