After this one excess Wynne’s behaviour provided his parents with little reason for complaint. He developed a strange amenity to domestic discipline—he went to bed when he was told, and did not pursue his old habits of asking “stupid questions.” But there was about him a certain secretiveness at once perplexing and irritating. He obeyed readily, and accepted correction in good part, but there hovered round the corners of his mouth a queer and cynical smile. His expression seemed to say, “You are in command, and what you say I must do I will do, but of course your rulings are quite absurd.” Mr. Rendall endured this inexplicable attitude for several months, but finally was so annoyed that he wrote the master of the day-school of which Wynne was a member, and asked him to investigate the matter and inflict what punishments might seem adequate. To this letter he received a reply to the effect that as Wynne was showing such astonishing diligence at his books he deemed it advisable to ignore an offence which, at most, was somewhat hypothetical. Mr. Rendall was by no means satisfied of the advisability of taking so lenient a course. He considered it pointed to a lack of authority which might well prove fatal in the moulding of character. He decided, therefore, to tackle Wynne himself upon the subject, and did so in his accustomed style. Wynne was working at Latin declensions in the morning-room when his father entered. “Proper time for everything,” he said. “Put away that book and go out for a walk—plenty of time for book reading in school hours.” “All right,” said Wynne, with resignation. As he walked toward the door the smile curled the corners of his mouth. “Here! come back,” ordered Mr. Rendall. “Now then what are you smiling at?” Wynne thought for a moment, then he answered, “I shan’t tell you.” “Oh, you won’t!” “No. I obey what you tell me to do, and without any fuss, but I shan’t tell you why I smile.” “We’ll see about that. P’r’aps I can find a way to stop it.” “You couldn’t.” “Oho! couldn’t I?” “No, because I couldn’t stop it myself,” said Wynne, and walked from the room. He had learnt the value of a Parthian arrow. To remain after the discharge of a shaft was to court painful consequences. It was therefore his habit, after once unmasking his batteries, to withdraw them speedily to new emplacements. This was not cowardice, but diplomacy, for there was no value in risking chastisement which might be avoided.