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
old-fashioned narrow fringe of dingy hair. He knew that in spite of
Sir Godfrey and the family estate of which she was always talking, she
was common to the heart--not a lady like Christine and his mother--and
her occasionally adopted pose of authority convulsed him with a blind,
ungovernable fury. He was too young to understand that she meant
well--was indeed good-natured and kindly enough in her natural
environment--and as she advanced upon him now, in reality to smooth his
disordered hair, he drew back, an absurd miniature replica of James
Stonehouse in his worst rages, his fists clenched, his teeth set on a
horrible recurring nausea.
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