Presently he raised his head.
"Why don't you go, you hateful, beastly little pryer? Why don't you? Oh, I don't mean it," he added wildly, "only—you—you'll despise me—more'n ever—" His voice dropped dejectedly. He began fumbling vainly for his handkerchief. Sheila Pat produced a clean folded one of her own, and came across the room and handed it to him. "You'd better go—they'll be waiting for you won't they?"
"Please come, too, Tommy."
He turned wondering eyes on her.
"Look here, I—I'm going to tell you! It was a beastly boy—I went to post a letter for mother this morning, and he—" his face flushed scarlet, "he imitated me—he pertended to be lame like me, and I—I tried to go for him, but he just ran, you see—and he—laughed—"
Sheila Pat's face quivered. There was a little silence.
"And—and he made me feel—wild—"
"Please, Tommy, don't talk about that boy," her voice shook, "please don't."
He stared moodily out of the window again. She stood by, a queer little motherly look on her serious face.
"Will you come now, Tommy?"