“This is my younger son. Wynne—come along, my boy—gaping there! Shake hands with your Uncle Clementine.”
Wynne did not require a second invitation, but descended the stairs two at a time.
“Frail little devil, aren’t you?” said Clem, enveloping the small hand of his nephew. “Jove! Robert, but there’s a bit of the old man in him—notice it? Something about the eyes—and mouth. How old are you, youngster?”
“I’m nine,” said Wynne.
“Nine, eh! Fine age. Just beginning to break the bud and feel the sun. Wish I were nine, and all to make. Don’t you wish you were nine, Robert?”
“I do not.”
“ ’Course you do. If you were breaking the bud at nine you wouldn’t graft the stem with a tea-plant. Would he, youngster? Not on purpose. He’d pitch it a bit higher than that—see himself a larkspur or a foxglove before he’d be satisfied. Well, what about this walk? Bring the youngster too.”
“I think his mother has already arranged—”
“Nonsense! If you don’t care to come he and I’ll go together. Get your hat, son.”
For the first time in memory Wynne was grateful for the hat-rack being in the hall. He snatched his cap from a peg and ran into the front garden before his father had time to say no.