“Robert, the youngster and I will take a turn in the garden.”
Mr. Rendall demurred, but Clem waved the objection aside and led the way down the openwork iron stairs to the lawn.
“Now then,” he said. “What’s the trouble with you? Didn’t like that calculating remark of yours one bit.”
“I’m sorry,” said Wynne, “but why should I tell them my joke, they couldn’t see it.”
“Then keep it for the dark, old fellow, or conceal it altogether. The I-know-more-than-you-but-I-won’t-say-what-it-is attitude does no one any good.”
Wynne jerked his head petulantly.
“The faun was laughing in grandfather’s painting.”
“Oho! So that’s it? But the villagers didn’t know he was laughing.”
“You and I did.”
“Perhaps. But we shouldn’t be so unsubtle as to tell them so. Consider a minute. Suppose we thought lots of people were very wrong, and their wrongness tickled our humour, d’you think the best way of putting ’em right would be to laugh at ’em? Take it from me it isn’t. If you laugh at a dog he’ll bite you, but pat him and, in time, he’ll jump through hoops, walk on his hind legs, and be tricksy as you want.”