“Well, someone’s got to understand,” persisted the boy in a high-handed way. “You aren’t going to be let get in tempers with me and then sulk about it afterwards. Don’t be silly. Sit up.” Patricia’s golden hair lay about her like a veil. He pushed it aside and tried to pull her hands away from her face, for he was getting really a little frightened at her manner. Some instinct taught him that her misery was as exaggerated and bad for her as her temper, and he was dimly afraid of leaving her alone, as was the custom of her little world after one of her outbreaks.
Patricia suddenly sat up. There were black rims round her great sad eyes already and her face was red and white in patches from the pressure of her hands. 82
“You said I hadn’t hurt you,” she gasped, gazing at the dull red mark of which Christopher was already almost unaware.
“Does it show? What a beastly nuisance. I said it didn’t hurt much, Patricia. Not at all now. I’m sorry I was such a baby.” He put his arm round her and she leant her head against him too exhausted to care whether he thought her a baby or not.
“It must be jolly exciting having a temper like that,” he said, thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t be half so bad if you meant it.”
She sat bolt upright and stared at him.
“Why?” she demanded breathlessly.
“Because if you meant it you could take care not to mean it, silly. You’d look out. But you don’t mean it. You didn’t mean to hurt me then till you did it. It’s much worse for you.”
She drew a long breath.
“Oh, Christopher dear, how clever you are. No-one ever understood that before. They all say, ‘well, anyhow, you don’t mean it,’ as if that made it better.”