“Ah, they wouldn’t. But there are all sorts of pictures, and perhaps yours are the wrong sort. Now, your grandfather painted the right sort. Here, wait a minute.” He fumbled in his pocket and produced a letter-case. “There!” taking a photograph from one compartment. “This is a copy of one of his pictures. Look at it. A faun playing his pipe to stupid villagers. D’you see the expression on his face? He looks very serious, doesn’t he, and yet you and I know that he’s laughing. Can you guess why he’s laughing?” Wynne took the photograph and studied it carefully. At length he said: “He’s laughing because they can’t understand the tune he’s playing.” “Bravo!” cried Uncle Clem, and clapped him on the back. “Any more?” Wynne turned to the picture again. “Some of them aren’t paying attention. Look at that one—he’s cutting a piece of stick to amuse himself. And this—he looks just like his father does when he’s wondering if he has time to catch the train.” “Oh, excellent! That’s precisely what he is doing. If he had been born in a later age he’d have been looking at his watch—as it is he is telling the time by the sun—see it falling there between the trees?—and he seems to be saying, ‘If this fellow goes on much longer I shall miss my tea.’ Don’t you think that picture was worth painting?” “Yes,” said Wynne; “but I’ve never seen a picture like that before. Ours are all lighthouses and things. What is the name of the man who is playing the pipe?” “He’s a faun—or, as some people would say—a satyr.” “I’d like to be a faun,” said Wynne, “but if I were I should get into a fearful temper with the people who didn’t like my tunes. I should hit them over the head with my pipe.” “You’d cease to be a satyr if you did that. To be a proper satyr you must smile and go on playing until at last they do understand. That’s the artist’s job in this world, and it is a job too—a job and a fearful responsibility.” “Why is it?” “Because at heart the villagers don’t want to understand, and if you feel it’s your duty to make them—your duty to stir their souls with music—then you must be doubly sure that you give them the right music. A mistake in a row of figures doesn’t matter—any one can alter that—but a false note of music—a false word upon the page—a false brush-mark upon a canvas stands for all time.” “I see,” breathed Wynne. “I hadn’t thought of that. I’d only thought it mattered to make people believe something different.” “Hullo! We’re through the gates,” exclaimed Uncle Clem. “Drive on somewhere near the ponds, Jehu, and deposit us there. Ever been in the Royal Park of Richmond before, young fellow?” Wynne shook his head. His mind did not switch over to a new train of thought as rapidly as his uncle’s, and it still hovered over the subject of the picture, which he kept in his hand. “Keep it if you like,” said Uncle Clem, following the train of his nephew’s thoughts. “Keep it and think about it.”