“No, I don’t think I was. My mother was a child with me. We were blissfully happy manufacturing a doll’s house out of a packing chest, and furnishing it with beds made out of cardboard boxes, and sofas made out of pin-cushions. I used to feel other children a bore because they distracted her attention.”
“That would be when you were—how old? Six or seven? And you are now—what is it? Twenty-two? I must have been a schoolboy of seventeen at that time, imagining myself a man. Ten years makes a lot of difference at that age. It doesn’t count so much later on. At least I should think not. Do I appear to you very old?”
“Hoary!”
“No, but I say... Honestly!”
“Don’t be conceited. You know perfectly well—”
“But I wanted to make sure! And then you went to school. Did you have a bad time at first among the other girls?”
“No. I’m afraid the other girls had a bad time with me. I was very uppish and British, and insisted on getting my own way. Did you have a bad time?”
“Yes, I did,” he said simply. “Small boys have a pretty stiff time of it during their first term, and my time happened to be stiffer than most. I may be as miserable again. I hope I never may be! But I’m pretty sure it’s impossible to be more miserable than I was at nine years old, bullied on every side, breaking my heart with home sickness, and too proud to show a sign.”
“Poor little lad!” sighed Claire softly, and for a long minute the two pairs of eyes met, and exchanged a message. “But afterwards? It grew better after that?”
“Oh, yes. I learnt to stand up for myself, and moved up in the school, and began to bully on my own... Did you make many real friends in your school days?”