The manner of Wynne Rendall’s coming into prominence was fortuitous. It happened a little over two years after his marriage, and, broadly speaking, was engineered by Eve.
As a result of some unexpected sales to American publishers a few extra pounds slipped through the lodging letter-box, and Eve insisted he should spend some of these in joining a club of good standing.
“You’ve been in the dark too long, Wynne. A writer of plays must be known by the people who produce them, by the better actors and critics. They must get used to seeing you before they will believe in you.”
He raised no opposition to the idea. Of late he had felt cabined and confined, and the thought of broader horizons appealed to him.
“Uncle Clem would put you up for the Phœnician, wouldn’t he?”
Wynne shook his head irritably.
“I’m not disposed to ask favours of Uncle Clem,” he replied.
“Why not?”
“It was evident enough he disapproved of my mode of life when last we met. It will be time to ask him to do things for me when he approves. Besides, there’s no need. A cousin of my mother’s is a member—I’ll ask him.”
“Does he approve of your mode of life?”