As the fever burnt within him he felt mightily sorry for himself. The world had used him hardly when he sought to offer rare and wonderful gifts. That this should be so was a great tragedy—and a great mystery—also it was infinitely sad. The sadness appealed to him most, and he wept. He wept very copiously and for a long time. The weeping was a pleasant relief and a compensation for misery. He felt, if the world could behold his tears, they would assemble about his bedside and realize the injustice wrought by their deafness and stupidity—they would be compassionate and anxious to atone. Then, maybe, the great god of expression would provide him with the words to make his meaning clear. With this conviction he wept the louder, hoping to attract attention, but none came nigh him. Accordingly he wept afresh, and this time from disappointment. In the midst of this final mood of tears his brother, Wallace, came into the room. Wallace had been privileged to see the state of the drawing-room, and although he knew Wynne’s features well enough, he felt the need to scrutinize afresh the appearance of one who had wilfully produced such havoc. The characteristic is common to humanity—a man’s deeds create a revival of interest in his externals, hence the success of Madame Tussaud’s and the halfpenny illustrated press. At the sight of his brother, Wynne stopped crying, and composed himself to the best of his ability. “What do you want?” he asked. Wallace found some difficulty in replying. No one cares to admit they are visiting the Chamber of Horrors for pleasure, although that is the true explanation of their presence. At length he said: “Shut up—” and added in support of his command, “you silly fool.” “You needn’t stare at me if I’m a silly fool,” said Wynne. “A cat may look at a king,” was Wallace’s considered retort. “Well, I’d rather a cat looked at me than you did,” said Wynne, feeling he had nearly brought off something very telling. Wallace’s intention had not been to excite an argument on reciprocal lines. He desired to get at his brother’s reasons for the wholesale smash-up downstairs, consequently he allowed the remark to pass unchallenged. “Why did you break the overmantel and all those vases?” he demanded. “Because they were beastly and ugly.” “Beastly and ugly?” “Yes, horrid—and there were _two_ of each of them.” Wallace began to feel out of his depth. “But they were in _the drawing-room_,” he said. Since the drawing-room in every house is, or should be, the abode of art, it was obviously absurd to say that the appointments thereof were beastly or ugly. Wynne did not answer, so Wallace fell back on his beginnings. “You _must_ be a fool. Father gave you a good hiding, didn’t he?” “Yes.” “Did it hurt?” “Yes.” “I’ve never had a hiding.” There was rich pride in the avowal. “You’ve never done anything worth getting one for.” “Haven’t I? ’Tany rate, I bet you don’t behave like this again.” “I bet I do,” said Wynne.