With no great courtesy Wynne was thrust forward to a chalk circle in the centre of the floor. “You mustn’t come out of the circle until you have permission,” was a further instruction received. The escort drew away and stood with folded arms as befitted a stern occasion. “What is your name?” said he of the spectacles. “Wynne Rendall.” “Wynne Rendall?” “Yes.” “Gentlemen, you heard! Can we permit the name of Wynne? Does it belong to the same category of nomenclature as Eric, Archibald and Desmond, which we have already black-listed?” There followed a murmur of assent. “I thought as much. By my troth, it is a sorry name, and makes the gorge rise in disgust and abhorrence.” The magnificence of this language created a profound impression in which even Wynne himself participated. He was not, however, prepared to allow the speaker to have it all his own way, since he felt, if it came to the turning of a phrase, he might show them some skill. Accordingly he said: “The name was in no wise my own choice, so I can take neither blame nor credit for it.” “Be silent or be scragged, Wynne Rendall.” “Well, what is your name, anyway?” The speaker turned his eyes heavenward as though seeking fresh tolerance from the high gods. “Know,” he said, “that by no means shall you ask us to betray our cognomens. We are the Council and known only by our might. If you are curious, Sir Paulus Pry, you shall ask some of these others how we are called—but at another time.” This Wynne conceived to be highly proper and in every sense an example of the splendid isolation of the Ruler. No sane individual would ask a king his name, but would address the question to a chamberlain. The only fly in the amber was the appearance of the Chief of Council, who went on to say: “For the name Wynne punishment of the second order shall be inflicted. Is it met?” “It is met,” droned the Council, with solemn intonation. “Let us proceed then. What manner of man is thy father, O Wynne Rendall? Speak us fair, and do not seek to hide his calling.” “I have not yet found out what manner of man he is,” replied Wynne, lightning quick to pick up the pedantry of his interrogator, “but it beseems me he is a fellow of heavy wit, who bears always a befrowning countenance. As to his calling he doth trade of import with our brothers of the Ind for the dried leaf of the tea plant.” This speech composed and delivered with ceremony created something of an uproar. Cries were raised that the penalty of the parallel bars should be summarily inflicted. In the midst of a chaos of many voices the Chief of Council held up his hand for silence. “Look here, young Rendall,” he said, “you’d better jolly chuck cheeking, or it will be the worse for you. You answer properly if you don’t want a putrid licking—which you’ll get anyway.”