“For good!” repeated Mrs. Rendall, in an expressionless voice. “Really? Yes, well that does seem a pity. Your father had a nice opening for you with Mr. Kessles.” “I don’t think I should have flourished in an office, mother. I want to do and do and do.” “You might have gone to the office in the day-time and done a little writing in the evening. I am sure your father wouldn’t have objected to that.” Wynne shook his head. “Wouldn’t work,” he said. “Oh, I don’t know. Your brother Wallace finds time for chip-carving after city hours. He made me such a nice blotter last month—very pretty it was.” “’Tisn’t quite the same, is it?” “Well, I don’t know, one hobby is very like another.” “I’m sorry,” said Wynne, “but I’ll have to go.” “Where will you go to?” “No idea.” “How very extraordinary! But you might turn up anywhere?” “Yes.” He fidgeted. It was hard to find anything to say. “I’d better be off.” “Have you any money?” “No. But I want none of father’s—I’ll take none of that.” “You would take some of mine?” “Why should I?” “Because you can’t go away to nowhere without any money. Wait a minute.” He demurred, but she took no notice, and went upstairs to her room. When she returned she gave him two ten-pound notes. “I should have given you these on your eighteenth birthday, Wynne, so you may as well have them now. I did the same for Wallace when he was eighteen.” It was the old symmetry coming out again—a clock in the middle, and a candlestick on either side. “Thanks awfully much,” said Wynne. “It is part of what I inherited from your Great-uncle Bryan.” Uncle Clem had spoken the truth when he said, “Others will build the pulpit from which you hope to preach.” Wynne was going out to face the world on the reflected gilt of an agreeable counter-manner! “Good-bye, mother.” “Good-bye, Wynne.” It was surprising when he kissed her she should have said, “I think I am going to cry.” He answered quickly, “I shouldn’t—really I shouldn’t.” Crying is so infectious. “Perhaps I needn’t—but I could—I—I’m not sure I shan’t have to.” “It’s quite all right,” said Wynne. He kissed her again and hurried down the steps. The wind blowing through the broken window slammed the front door noisily. It occurred to Mrs. Rendall that the curtains might knock over the palm pedestal. Following the direction of her thoughts she moved to the dining-room to take steps. Her husband had said Wynne would return—“would crawl back on hands and knees”—and suppose he did not return? Well, then he wouldn’t. Hers was the kind of concentration that attaches more importance to airing a person’s sheets than to the person himself. Crying was of little service, and the impulse had lessened with the peril of the palm pedestal to be considered. IX Many courageous people are nervous to a fault in certain directions.