“Uncle Clem said they didn’t want to understand—but you just have to make them understand, and go on until they do.”
“Did he? Well, you’re on the point of understanding something you’ve never properly appreciated before. Out of the way, Mary.”
Mr. Rendall selected a cane from the umbrella stand, as he thrust Wynne down the hall to the dining-room. Over the arm of the leather saddlebag chair he bent the supple little body, and in the course of the half minute which followed he performed an ancient ritual which even Mr. Squeers would have found it difficult to improve upon.
When it was over he threw the cane upon the table and folded his hands behind his back.
“Had enough?” he interrogated.
The poor little faun twisted and straightened himself. His face was paper-white, and his breath came short and gasping, one of his hands fumbled on the chair-back for support, and his head worked from side to side.
As a man Mr. Rendall found the sight unpleasant to look upon, but as a father he felt the need to carry the matter through to its lawful conclusion.
“If you’ve had enough say you are sorry. I want no explanations.”
Wynne forced himself to concentrate his thoughts away from bodily anguish.
“I’ve had enough—but it doesn’t mean that I’m sorry.”