Mr. Rendall conceived that a subject that could not be understood should be immediately dismissed, and he applied the same theory to human beings. Taking this into consideration it is surprising that he did not pack Wynne off to a boarding-school and so rid himself of the source of his irritation. But Mr. Rendall, however, was not prepared to take risks where money was concerned. Rather than squander large sums upon education, the benefits of which his son might prove too young to appreciate, he determined that his own convenience must be sacrificed. He seriously considered the idea of sending Wynne to a cheaper school than Wyckley, but abandoned the project as being too hazardous. Wyckley was not a first-class school, but it had the reputation of providing boys with an excellent business education. To send Wynne to a cheaper might result in equipping him less well to earn his own livelihood. He therefore endured the inconvenience of Wynne’s society until he had celebrated his twelfth birthday, and then with a feeling of consummate relief dispatched him to Wyckley complete with an ironbound wooden box and a deplorably weak constitution. II On the day before Wynne’s departure Clementine Rendall paid a surprise visit. Wynne had not seen him since the day in Richmond Park, three years before, for his parents had discouraged their intimacy, but Uncle Clem still lived in his mind as a very romantic figure. Wynne had been buying some of the kit required for his school equipment, and on his return he found his father and Uncle Clem in the morning-room. His heart leapt at the sight of the big man, still splendid as of yore, but the three years of suppression through which he had passed had chilled the old impulse of enthusiasm which had brought him down the stairs three at a time on their first meeting. “Hullo, youngster!” came the cheery voice. “Good afternoon, Uncle Clem,” said Wynne, extending his thin white hand. “Looks ill!” observed Clem to his brother. Mr. Rendall raised his shoulders. “Boy’s disposition is unhealthy,” he remarked, “which naturally reacts on his physique.” Clem flashed a glance from the speaker to the subject, and noted how the corners of Wynne’s mouth curled down as much as to say, “You see what I am up against.” “You’re hard to please. Boy’s all right! Aren’t you, youngster?” “The boy is far from all right, Clem. He appears to lead a double life with some private joke of his own.” “I’ll ask him,” said Clem. “What father says is true. I have a private joke, uncle.” “Then get it off your chest, youngster. A joke is like a drink, and must not be taken alone.” Wynne pondered awhile before replying, then he produced his first epigram. “Yes, but you can’t share a drink with a teetotaler.” The subtlety of the phrase pleased him inordinately, and he was surprised to see that it produced nothing but a frown from Uncle Clem.