“That won’t stop me,” said Wynne. “It isn’t a race for the front door, which I lose if you’re quick enough to stop me.” “Very well,” conceded Mr. Rendall. “Very well—and how the devil do you think you’d live! Hey?” “I shall manage.” “Manage be damned! Not a penny shall you have from me—not a farthing—not a bean.” “Then take back what I have already.” Wynne’s hands dived into his trousers’ pockets and pulled out the linings. Two or three florins and a few odd pence tumbled to the floor and circled in all directions. Something in the action deprived Mr. Rendall of the last of his self-control. Seizing the silver entrée dish he sent it hurtling through the lower pane of the dining-room window. It was the first time his temper had risen to such heights. “Let in the air,” cried Wynne, with a note of hysteria, and picking up the pair of candlesticks from the mantelshelf he flung first one then the other through the remaining panes. The south-west wind bellied the Nottingham lace curtains and stirred the feathers in the canary’s back. “Twirrup,” he chirped, and hopping to the upper perch broke into a fine song of the palms that bow so statelily in the islands of the south. “Get out!” said Mr. Rendall. “I’ve done with you—get out!” VIII Wynne packed a suit case in his own time. He was not fastidious in the matter of clothes, and books were the chief things he took. Oddly enough he had no fear in facing the world alone. Possibly through inexperience the problem presented no alarming features. He did not imagine he was stepping out to meet an immediate fortune—education and added years had taught him that his singing days were still far ahead. He was confidently sure he would arrive eventually, but in the meantime the world lay before him—a mighty class-room through which he must pass before setting foot upon the Purple Patch. Bearing the bag in his hand he descended the stairs. In the hall he hesitated. Should he or should he not seek his mother and risk the possibility of a further scene. The problem was solved by her sudden appearance at the door of the drawing-room. In some respects her face had lost its wonted stolidity. She seemed as one perplexed by vague understandings. Cain might have looked so when he saw death for the first time in the fall of his brother, and wondered stupidly what manner of thing it might be. “So you are going away, Wynne,” she said. “Yes, mother.” “I see.” But she did not see very clearly, as her next remark betokened. “Have you packed your clean things?” For some human reason Wynne had no inclination to smile at this. It struck him as being somewhat pathetic. “I think so,” he replied. “That’s right. Did you ask cook to cut you some sandwiches?” “No, mother. I—I don’t think you quite understand. I’m not going away just for the day—I’m going for good.”