At the age of four and a half he was sent to a kindergarten, where he found many things to wonder about. He spent a year or more wondering. He wondered about the ribbons that tied little girls’ hair, and why hair need be tied, since it was pleasanter to look upon in riot. He wondered why the lady who kept the school had a chain to her eye-glasses, since they gripped her nose so securely that the danger of their falling off was negligible. He wondered why A was A, and not for example S, and would not accept it as being so without a reason being furnished. Also he wondered why he should be set tasks involving the plaiting of coloured strips of paper, which were tiresome to perform and unsightly when finished. “Why need I?” he asked petulantly. “Grown-ups don’t. They are ugly and silly.” “You mustn’t say that, Wynne,” reproved the mistress. “Besides it isn’t true. Doesn’t your mother do pretty embroidery? I am sure she does.” The logic of the reply pleased him, but it also set him speculating why his mother devoted her time to such profitless employment. The designs she worked were stereotyped and geometrical. It seemed impossible any one could wish to be associated with such productions, and yet, when he came to reflect upon the matter, he realized that most of her time was spent stitching at them. At the first opportunity he said: “Mummie, why do you do that?” “Because it is pretty,” she replied. There must be something wrong then, he decided. Either she had used the wrong word, or the natural forms which he had decided were “pretty” were not pretty at all. The train of thought was a little complex, so he questioned afresh: “What are they for when you’ve done?” “Antimacassars.” “What’s antercassars?” “It means something you put over the back of a chair to prevent the grease from people’s hair spoiling the coverings.” Mrs. Rendall’s grandmother had provided her with this valuable piece of knowledge. “Oh,” said Wynne. His eyes roamed round the precise semi-circle of small drawing-room chairs, each complete with its detachable antimacassar. As he looked it struck him that the backs of these chairs were so low that no grown-up person could bring his head into contact with them unless he sat upon the floor. Wherefore it was clear that his mother was making provision against a danger which did not exist. With this discovery awoke the impression that she could hardly be a lady of sound intelligence. Rather fearfully he advanced the theory that her labours were in vain. “Don’t bother your head about these things,” said Mrs. Rendall. “Plenty of time to think of them when you are grown up.” And she threaded her needle with a strand of crimson silk.