than his mother had become--and there were times when, with a queer
unchildish power of self-visualization, he saw himself as a small
fair-haired monster growing black and blacker with the dark and evil
spirit that was in him. But Christine never seemed to see him like
that. There was some borrowed halo about his head that blinded her.
It did not matter how bad he was, she had always love and excuses ready
for him. And she was literally all he had in the world.

But even she had not been able to make his birthday a success. Indeed,
ever since that one outstanding day all the celebrations had been
failures, though he had never ceased to look forward to them. For days
before his last birthday he had suspected everyone of secret delicious
plottings on his behalf. He had come down to breakfast shaking with
anticipation. All through the morning he had waited for the surprise
that was to be sprung on him, hanging at everyone's heel in turn, and
it was only towards dusk that he knew with bitter certainty that he had
been forgotten. A crisis had wiped him and his birthday out
altogether. And then he had cried, and James Stonehouse, moved to
generous remorse, had rushed out and bought a ridiculously expensive
toy having first borrowed money from Christine and scolded her at the
top of his booming voice for her heartless neglect of his son's
happiness.

Christine had argued with him in her quiet obstinate way.

"But, Jim dear, you can't afford it----"

There had been one of those awful rows.

And Robert had crept that night, unwashed, into bed, crying more