"I'm glad it isn't," said Brian in relief. "Somehow I can't imagine Kenny off there in a hot cabin striding up and down and grilling Don. He's so--so combustible. As a matter of fact," he added, "I can't imagine him in any sort of cabin grilling Don. Soft-hearted lunatic!" "Don gets awfully on his nerves," said Joan, shaking her head. "If it wasn't that he's doing it for you--" "For me, Joan!" Joan nodded. "What you began, he'll finish for you. He said so. It bothered him that all those dreary months you spent at the quarry just to help Don might be in vain. Don went so dreadfully to pieces." "Sentimental old hothead," grumbled Brian, touched and pleased. "I love him for it." "I wonder if you realize how much he cares!" "For--you?" asked Brian quietly. "Yes." "No, no," said Joan, coloring. "For you. For you he has worked through splendidly to--to less of self. And so has Don. It's a wonderful tribute, Brian. To inspire something fine and beautiful is fine and beautiful itself." Brian stared uncomfortably at a red barn in the valley. "To have something dormant inside that catches fire and burns up splendidly into unselfishness is better," he said. "This porch is like a throne. One sits up here among the honeysuckles and finds a world of summer at his feet." "Last summer," remembered Joan, "Kenny used to tell me over and over again that you were all things in one. All, Brian. Think of it! Almost," she finished demurely, "I came to believe it." Brian glanced at her in droll suspicion. Her eyes laughed at him with the wholesome mischief of a child. "Almost!" he countered. "I insist upon my full meed of perfection. When did I lose it?" "When you hounded the nurse--" "Plural noun," amended Brian wryly. "Plural," agreed Joan. "I knew then that the idol had clay feet." Brian groaned. "Haven't you?" "Yes," he said. "And a clay head. But I was never an idol." "Oh, yes you were!" said Joan. "When you gave up your trip abroad to help Don, you became to me a wonderful sort of--of selfless young god--" "Joan!" He stared at her in panic. "Truly. And I'd rather have you human. I always thought of you with thankful worship--" "I approve the attitude," said Brian mischievously. "Please state when and why discontinued." "The minute I met you." "Phew! That I consider unnecessarily heartless candor. Did you ever hear of tempering the wind to the shorn lamb?" "If I had met you in the end, alive and well," said Joan thoughtfully, "I would have kept you up there on your pedestal out of mortal reach but you came into my life, hurt and pitiful, and you needed help, my sort of help, and something humanized you. You were no longer a god. You were something human--" "Thank God for that!" said Brian. "Besides," added Joan, twinkling, "you had clay feet. Garry wrote me that you had an Irish temper--" "And I told you to write him!"