With this calamity Wynne Rendall lost control of himself. The mainspring of his idea snapped, and he became merely a whirlwind of senseless activity. He dragged pictures from the walls and thrust them beneath tables, he wrenched the green plush curtains from the lacquered pole and cast them anyhow—over chairs and sofas—the straight-laid rugs he pulled askew, he flung an armful of books haphazard on the top of the piano—he set fire to the crinkly paper in the grate and threw two aspidistras into the garden. An insane humour seizing him, he brought in the hat-rack from the hall, and hung coloured plates on all its pegs. At the end of an hour the effect he had produced could have been more simply arrived at, and with less destruction to property, if some expert from Barcelona had exploded a bomb in the apartment. Wynne’s clothing was awry, his fingers cut and bleeding, and his face covered with dust and perspiration, when his father, followed by his mother, opened the door and stood spellbound upon the threshold. With eyes glittering like diamonds he turned and faced them. The long pause before any word was spoken was the hardest persecution he had to bear. Then came the inevitable: “What the devil is the meaning of this?” “It means—” he began, but the words stuck in his throat. “Are you responsible for this?” Mr. Rendall took a step toward him. Wynne nodded. “Yes-s,” he breathed. “Is he mad?” Mr. Rendall appealed to his wife, but she was too flabbergasted to utter a sound. “Are you mad?” “No,” said Wynne. He knew he must speak. His whole being called on him to speak, and yet, try as he would, the words refused to come. Oh, why, why wasn’t Uncle Clem present to say the things he could not express? If he failed to establish his position there and then the chance would be gone for ever. “You had better speak,” said his father, “better explain the meaning of this—and explain quick.” The last part of the sentence rose to a shout. “I did it—I did it because you are all wrong—that’s why—all wrong.” “Wrong! What about?” “Oh, everything. It’s—y-you can see, now, you were wr-wrong—c-can’t you? Now that I’ve—oh, you were so wrong—” “There won’t be much wrong with what I intend doing to you, my boy.” A hand fell heavily on his shoulder, but he did not wince. “Won’t make any difference.” “We’ll see about that.” “Uncle Clem said they didn’t want to understand—but you just have to make them understand, and go on until they do.” “Did he? Well, you’re on the point of understanding something you’ve never properly appreciated before. Out of the way, Mary.” Mr. Rendall selected a cane from the umbrella stand, as he thrust Wynne down the hall to the dining-room. Over the arm of the leather saddlebag chair he bent the supple little body, and in the course of the half minute which followed he performed an ancient ritual which even Mr. Squeers would have found it difficult to improve upon.