to leave a dull bruise which
is slow to depart, if it ever do so entirely; and Harold confesses to a
twinge or two, still, at times, like the veteran who brings home a
bullet inside him from martial plains over sea.

He knew he was a brute the moment he had done it. Selina had not meant
to worry, only to comfort and assist. But his soul was one raw sore
within him, when he found himself shut up in the schoolroom after hours,
merely for insisting that 7 times 7 amounted to 47. The injustice of it
seemed so flagrant. Why not 47 as much as 49! One number was no prettier
than the other to look at, and it was evidently only a matter of
arbitrary taste and preference, and, anyhow, it had always been 47 to
him, and would be to the end of time. So when Selina came in out of the
sun, leaving the Trappers of the Far West behind her, and putting off
the glory of being an Apache squaw in order to hear him his tables and
win his release, Harold turned on her venomously, rejected her kindly
overtures, and even drove his elbow into her sympathetic ribs, in his
determination to be left alone in the glory of sulks. The fit passed
directly, his eyes were opened, and his soul sat in the dust as he
sorrowfully began to cast about for some atonement heroic enough to
salve the wrong.

Of course poor Selina looked for no sacrifice nor heroics whatever; she
didn't even want him to say he was sorry. If he would only make it up,
she would have done the apologising part herself. But that was not a
boy's way. Something solid, Harold felt, was due from him; and until
that was achieved, making-up must not be thought of, in order that the
final effect might not be spoilt. Accordingly, when his release came,
and Selina hung about trying to catch his eye, Harold, possessed by the
demon of a distorted motive, avoided her steadily--though he was
bleeding inwardly at every minute of delay--and came to me instead.
Needless to say, I warmly approved his plan. It was so much more
high-toned than just going and making-up tamely, which any one could do;
and a girl who had been jabbed in the ribs by a hostile elbow could not
be expected for a moment to overlook it, without the liniment of an
offering to soothe her injured feelings.

'I know what she wants most,' said Harold. 'She wants that set of
tea-things in the toyshop window, with the red and blue flowers on 'em;
she's wanted it for months, 'cos her dolls are getting big enough to
have real afternoon t