Wynne’s father, who had not profited by the decease of either of his parents, did not love his brother Clementine any the better in consequence. He was a man who liked money and desired it greatly. He was fond of its appearance, its power, and the pleasing sounds it gave when jingled in the pocket.
At the reading of the will there had been something of a scene on account of a piece of posthumous fun from the late Edward’s pen:
“To my son Clementine I will and bequeath my entire fortune and estate, real and personal.” And written in pencil at the foot of the page—“To that pillar of commerce, Robert Everett Rendall, who was once my son, I bequeath a quarter of a pound of China tea, to be chosen according to his taste.”
It was on a bright Sunday morning that Clem Rendall appeared at “The Cedars,” and his visit was entirely unexpected.
“Morning,” he greeted the maid who opened the door. “Family at home?”
Wynne’s father came out into the hall to see who the visitor might be.
“Hullo, Robert,” said Clem, “coming for a walk?”
Nearly ten years had elapsed since their last meeting, and Mr. Rendall, senior, conceived that the tone of his brother’s address lacked propriety.
“This is a surprise, Clem,” he observed, soberly enough. His eyes travelled disapprovingly over his brother’s loose tweed suit, yellow-spotted necktie, and soft felt hat.
“Such a lovely day, I took a train to Wimbledon and determined to walk over to Richmond Park. Passing your house reminded me. Are you coming?”