Christopher concluded his simple and direct account with these words, and waited vainly for a reply from his hearer, who stood by the window with his back to him.
“It’s so nearly a thing of the past, too, that it hardly seemed worth mentioning,” he went on presently, an uneasy wonder at the silence growing on him.
At length Geoffry spoke, in a thick, slow way, like a man groping in darkness.
“You mean she did throw that stone deliberately, meaning to hit me?”
He had no sight at present for the wider issues that beset them or for Patricia’s story: his attention was concentrated on the incident immediately affecting him and he could see it in no light but that of dull horror.
“Deliberately tried to do it?” he repeated, turning to Christopher.
“There wasn’t anything deliberate about it. She just flung the stone at you precisely as you flung one at the rabbit. Sort of blind instinct. She does not know now she really hurt you.”
He glanced at the crossing strips of plaster with which the other’s head was adorned on the right side.
“It’s horrible,” muttered Geoffry, “I can’t understand it.”
“It’s simple enough.” There was growing impatience in Christopher’s voice. “She inherits this ghastly temper as I’ve told you. It’s like a sudden 280 gust of wind if she’s not warned. It takes her off her feet, as it were, but she’s nearly learnt to stand firm. She has a wretched time after.”