"I did," he smiled.

"And what happened?" she asked. "Or do I ask too many questions?"

"I'm flattered, I assure you. But--let me see--what happened? Well,
riding, lessons, sisters. There was an enchanted rubbish heap, I
remember, where all kinds of queer things happened. Odd, what things
impress children! I can remember the look of the place to this day.
It's a fallacy to think that children are happy. They're not; they're
unhappy. I've never suffered so much as I did when I was a child."

"Why?" she asked.

"I didn't get on well with my father," said Richard shortly. "He was
a very able man, but hard. Well--it makes one determined not to sin in
that way oneself. Children never forget injustice. They forgive heaps of
things grown-up people mind; but that sin is the unpardonable sin. Mind
you--I daresay I was a difficult child to manage; but when I think what
I was ready to give! No, I was more sinned against than sinning. And
then I went to school, where I did very fairly well; and and then, as
I say, my father sent me to both universities. . . . D'you know, Miss
Vinrace, you've made me think? How little, after all, one can tell
anybody about one's life! Here I sit; there you sit; both, I doubt not,
chock-full of the most interesting experiences, ideas, emotions; yet how
communicate? I've told you what every second person you meet might tell
you."

"I don't think so," she said. "It's the way of saying things, isn't it,
not the things?"