“Oh, may I really? It would be lovely if I might.” His eyes feasted on his new possession. “Uncle, there are two of the villagers who seem to understand, aren’t there? These two, holding hands.” “Ah, to be sure they do. That’s because they are lovers.” “Lovers?” “Yes, lovers understand all manner of things that other people don’t. In fact, only a lover can properly understand. But I’ll tell you all about that later on.” “Later on” is so much kindlier a phrase than “When you are old enough.” “There, put it in your pocket. What—afraid of crumpling it? Half a minute, then; I’ll turn out the letter-case and you can have that too.” And so Wynne came to possess a most marvellous picture and a crocodile case, bearing in silver letters “C. R.” “I think,” said Clem to the driver, as they descended by the rhododendrons near the ponds, “it would be a good idea if you drove to Kingston and bought us a lunch. You know the sort of thing—meat pies, jam tarts, ginger beer, fairy cakes—anything you can think of. We’ll meet you here in an hour and a half.” He gave the driver a five-pound note and smiled him farewell. It was very splendid to be associated with a man who would trust a stranger with so huge a fortune without so much as taking the number of the cab. Wynne could not help recalling the precautions his father had taken when once he had despatched a messenger to collect a parcel from the chemist’s. The comparison was greatly to the detriment of Mr. Rendall, senior. “This is one of the wildest parts of the park,” announced Uncle Clem. “If we go hushily we shall see rabbits before they see us, and perhaps almost get within touch of a deer.” “What, real deer—stags?” “Any amount of them. They bell in the mating season, and have battles royal on the mossy sward.” “And can you get near enough to touch one?” “Not quite. You think you will, and tiptoe toward him with your hand outstretched, and then, just as you almost feel the warmth of him at the tips of your fingers—hey presto! Zing! he’s gone, and divots of earth are flying round your ears. That’s why the stag is the ideal beast—because he’s elusive.” “You could shoot him,” suggested Wynne. “Yes, you can kill an ideal, and a lot of good may it do you dead. Shooting is no good, but if you run after him, as like as not he’ll lead you through lovely, unheard-of places. Here’s an umbrageous oak. We’ll spread ourselves out beneath it and praise God for the sunshine that makes us appreciate the shade.” He threw himself luxuriously on the soft green carpet, and felt in his pocket for a pipe. It was not until he had carefully filled it that he found he had no matches. “This,” he said, “is really terrible. What is to be done?” “I’ll run off and find some one,” exclaimed Wynne, enthusiastic at the chance of rendering a service. But Uncle Clem restrained him.