In the midst of these rapturous reflections came the thought that perhaps he was a little young to become the leader of a new movement. This, however, in no wise oppressed him. The younger the better. The distillations of his soul would be none the less rare for being contained in a small vessel. He would play upon a pipe to foolish villagers. There were foolish villagers around him in abundance. He knew of two in their own kitchen—hide-bound creatures who excused themselves from doing anything he asked on the grounds of suffering from “bones in their legs.” Were there not others, beside, with whom he sat daily at table? Charity should begin at home (there was a motto to that effect hanging on the wall in the spare bedroom), it should therefore begin with the lowest storey and work up to the highest. These people were of proven folly—that much he knew from personal investigation; it was his duty to pipe them to a better understanding. And then arrived a really disturbing thought. He possessed no pipe, nor any skill to play upon it had he possessed one. From exaltation his spirits fell to despair. Was the world to be denied enlightenment for so poor a reason? Such a pass would be unendurable. Wynne Rendall was nothing if not courageous. If he felt an impulse of sufficient force he would accept any hazard to give it expression. His bodily frailty and susceptibility to pain were no deterrents. He decided, therefore, while the spirit moved him the supreme moment must not be lost. He would have to rely upon circumstance and the fertility of his imagination in carrying out the campaign, and not allow his thoughts to be damped by knowledge of their unpreparedness. He recalled how yesterday the sweet environment had lent colour to much that his uncle had said, and reflected it would be well to profit by that lesson, and set the scene for his new teachings in a fashion calculated to promote a sympathetic atmosphere. To speak to his parents of a freer life and purer outlook in their drawing-room, as they had arranged it, would be to court failure. His father was at the City, his mother was out—this, then, was the ideal moment to strike a blow against symmetry and in favour of æsthetics. With heart sledge-hammering against his ribs, Wynne descended the stairs and entered the drawing-room. With disfavour his eyes roamed over the accustomed arrangements. Balance was the inspiring motive which had dominated the Rendalls’ mind when they set out their ornaments and hung their pictures, and balance was the motive which Wynne determined to destroy. Beginning with his old enemy, the mantelpiece, he cleared everything from it. None of these detested examples of art should remain, he decided. The marble clock, ticking menacingly, was crammed into the cabinet, where it was speedily followed by the equestrian bronzes and the wrought-iron candlesticks.