When it was over he threw the cane upon the table and folded his hands behind his back. “Had enough?” he interrogated. The poor little faun twisted and straightened himself. His face was paper-white, and his breath came short and gasping, one of his hands fumbled on the chair-back for support, and his head worked from side to side. As a man Mr. Rendall found the sight unpleasant to look upon, but as a father he felt the need to carry the matter through to its lawful conclusion. “If you’ve had enough say you are sorry. I want no explanations.” Wynne forced himself to concentrate his thoughts away from bodily anguish. “I’ve had enough—but it doesn’t mean that I’m sorry.” “Silence!” roared his father. “I’m not sorry—not a bit sorry.” “D’you intend to do this kind of thing again, then?” “No. I shan’t do it again—not yet.” “Then get out of the room—get to bed at once.” Uncle Clem knew. The villagers do not want to understand. Wynne groped his way from the room and up the stairs. The world was not such a wonderful place after all. Meanwhile Mrs. Rendall had been taking an inventory of the disaster in the drawing-room. She sought her husband with details of the result. “The overmantel is quite ruined,” she announced. “Damn the overmantel!” he retorted. “Did Wynne say he was sorry?” “Sorry—no—he’s not sorry.” “Then I cannot think what he did it for,” she remarked illogically. “Oh, don’t talk like a fool,” he implored. “Two of the aspidistras have been thrown into the garden,” said she. Actions resulting from mental suggestion are sometimes immediate. Mr. Rendall caught up the sugar-castor and sent it hurtling through the air, and once more “Clovelly” faced the world without a glass. “Oh dear!” lamented Mrs. Rendall, “there seems such a lot of smashing going on today, one can’t keep pace with it all.” X Next morning found Wynne ill and feverish. The mental excitement and bodily pain of the previous day had proved more than his constitution could endure. Wherefore he tossed in bed, lying chiefly on his side for obvious reasons. Mr. Rendall was thorough, of that there was no question. Wynne was able to reassure himself of his father’s thoroughness when he touched his small flank with tentative finger-tips.