“I have,” she smiled, for it was their wedding day, and future wives and husbands say pleasant things to each other on their wedding days, even though sometimes they forget to do so afterwards. “A man—in fact, an uncle of mine.” “Uncle Clem?” “Yes. How did you know?” “Guessed.” “Have I spoken of him?” “Once.” “I want you to meet him.” “Then I do too.” “Don’t know where he lives though.” “Let’s try a telephone directory.” They did—and successfully. “He would live in Kensington Square,” said Wynne. “Have you never been to see him before?” Wynne shook his head. “But why not?” “Did you never have that feeling of wanting to keep something back? How can I explain? If you are thirsty and at last you are within reach of a drink, have you never waited awhile instead of snatching it to your lips?” “I know.” “Then that’s why. Only here and there has he entered my life, and somehow each time I felt the better for him. I’m not a very grateful individual, but I’m grateful to Uncle Clem—and I’m grateful _for_ Uncle Clem, too. He sees things very agreeably. When I was a child I thought him a god—and I haven’t altogether outgrown that feeling.” “Then why do you avoid him?” “When one goes before the Presence one likes to have something to show.” “I see.” He touched her hand lightly. “Today I have something to show.” They climbed to the top of a bright red ’bus and journeyed to Kensington. At the church they descended, and dipped into the little side street which leads to the Queen Anne houses of Kensington Square. There was a copper knocker on the door of Uncle Clem’s abode, with which Wynne very bravely tattooed his arrival. “Yes, Mr. Rendall is in,” admitted the manservant who answered the summons. “Was he expecting you?” “Heavens! no,” said Wynne. “I’m his nephew—but let him find out for himself. We shouldn’t pocket the spoons if you invited us to come inside.” The man smiled. “I recognize the relationship in your speech, sir.” He opened the door of a white-panelled room, and, when they had entered, mounted the stairs to inform his master. “Good, isn’t it?” said Wynne, his eyes roaming over the comfortable disorder and beautiful appointments. “Everything right. Hullo!” He halted abruptly before a large framed canvas on one of the walls, “The Faun and the Villagers.” He was standing so when the door opened, and Uncle Clem, dressed in quilted smoking jacket and a pair of ultra vermilion slippers, came in. He paused a moment, then out rang his voice: “Ha! The young fellow! Ain’t dead, then? Let’s look at you!” Wynne met the full smack of the descending hand in his open palm. “No,” he laughed. “Look here, instead,” and pivoted Uncle Clem so that Eve came in his line of sight. “Splendid!” said Clem, moving to meet her. “Used to tell him he’d do no good until he fell in love. May I kiss her?” “Don’t ask me.” “Well, may I?” “Um!” said Eve. And he did, saying thereafter: