Greta opened her book, and put a finger in the page. “Herr Harz is very kind to me,” she said. “Yesterday he brought a bird which had come into his studio with a hurt wing; he brought it very gently in his handkerchief—he is very kind, the bird was not even frightened of him. You did not know about that, Chris?”
Chris flushed a little, and said in a hurt voice
“I don't see what it has to—do with me.”
“No,” assented Greta.
Christian's colour deepened. “Go on with your history, Greta.”
“Only,” pursued Greta, “that he always tells you all about things, Chris.”
“He doesn't! How can you say that!”
“I think he does, and it is because you do not make him angry. It is very easy to make him angry; you have only to think differently, and he shall be angry at once.”
“You are a little cat!” said Christian; “it isn't true, at all. He hates shams, and can't bear meanness; and it is mean to cover up dislikes and pretend that you agree with people.”
“Papa says that he thinks too much about himself.”