chair and was sick--convulsively, hideously sick. For a moment he
remained huddled on the floor, half unconscious, and then very slowly
the green, soul-destroying mist receded and he found Christine bending
over him, wiping his face, with her pocket-Handkerchief.

"Robert, darling, why didn't you call out?"

"He's been smoking," Edith's voice declared viciously from somewhere in
the background. "I can smell it. The horrid little boy----"

"I didn't--I didn't----" He kept his feet with an enormous effort,
scowling at her. He lied shamelessly, as a matter of course and
without the faintest sense of guilt. Everyone lied. They had to.
Christine knew that as well as anyone. Not that lying was of the
slightest use. His father's temper fed on itself and was independent
alike of fact or fiction. But you could no more help lying to him than
you could help flinching from a red-hot poker. "I didn't," he repeated
stubbornly, and all the while repeating to himself, "It's my
birthday--and they've forgotten. They don't care." But he would
rather have died then and there than have reminded them. He would not
even let them see how miserable he was, and to stop himself from crying
he kept his eyes fixed on Edith Stonehouse, who in turn measured him
with that exaggerated and artificial horror which she considered
appropriate to naughty children.

"Oh, how can you, Robert? Don't you know what happens to wicked little
boys who tell lies?"

He hated her. He hated the red, coarse-skinned face, the tight mouth
and opaque brown eyes and the low, stupid forehead with its