“Stupid, of course it’s harder to help what you don’t mean than what you do.”
“But I can’t help it.”
Christopher gave her a little shake. “Don’t be silly. You will have to help it, only it’s harder. You can’t go on like that when you are big—ladies don’t—none I’ve seen. It’s only––” he stopped.
“Only what?”
“Women in the street. At least—some, I’ve seen them. They fight and scream and get black eyes and get drunk.”
“Christopher, you are hateful!” She flared up with hot cheeks and put her hand over his mouth. “I’m not like that, you horrid boy. Say I’m not.”
“I didn’t say you were,” said Christopher with 83 faint exasperation. “I said it reminded me—your temper. Come along in.”
She followed very unwillingly, more conscious than he was of his disfigured face.
And Renata met them in the hall and saw it and got pink, but said nothing till Patricia had gone upstairs. Christopher was slipping away too—he never found much to say to Mrs. Aston—and of late less than ever. However, she stopped him.
“Have you been quarrelling, Christopher?” she asked deprecatingly with a little tremor in her voice.