“When will you?” exclaimed Wallace, conscious of great excitement, and hoping that on the next occasion he might be privileged to witness the work of destruction in full swing. “Not yet.” Wallace hesitated. “What room will you smash up next time?” he asked. “Oh, it isn’t for that,” cried Wynne, “you can’t see—nobody understands—” “Then shut up,” said Wallace, and departed. Strange as it may seem, this interview had great results in moulding Wynne Rendall’s character. From his brother’s obvious inability to realize any motive in his action, other than a wilful desire to destroy, he turned to an active consideration of what his motives had been. What was this message he had wished to convey to the world, and had stumbled so hopelessly in endeavouring to express? It was the first time he had put the question directly to himself. He knew he had had a quarrel with many existing matters, but in what manner did he propose to better them? And the answer came that he did not know. He had committed the very error against which Uncle Clem had warned him—the error of breaking down an old régime before he was able to supply an agreeable alternative. Small wonder, then, if his actions had savoured of lunacy to those who had beheld them. In imagination he pictured the drawing-room as it appeared after he had dealt with it, and was bound to confess that his labours had rendered no service to the shrine of comfort, art or beauty. Had he himself come suddenly upon such a room he would have been disgusted by its foolish and wanton disorder. The revolution had been a failure—complete and utter. Sobriety had been dragged from his throne, and havoc and ruin reigned instead. Havoc and Ruin—deplorable monarchs both, of senseless countenance and destructive hands. Small wonder if their subjects struck at them with sticks and staves. Small wonder if they could not see the ideals that lay hidden behind the wreckage of the great upheaval. The fact stood out clearly that his talents were not ripe. The time had not come when his song should thrill the world. But come it should, some day. To that end all his energies should be conserved. Yes, he would make the world a listener, but he would give it full measure for its attention, and even though each note should cut them as a knife—it should not be the gross stab of a maniac lurking in a dark doorway, but as the cut of a surgeon’s scalpel, who cuts to cure. Wynne sat up in bed, although to do so caused him pain, and registered a vow that he would learn all there was to learn, whereby in the end he might teach the more. PART TWO THE PURPLE PATCH I A man with a call is a very estimable fellow, but is apt to prove tiresome to his companions. The same might truthfully be said to apply to a child, although cases of a call in a child’s disposition are fortunately not of very frequent occurrence.