She's such a silly beast----"
Then to his amazement he saw that Francey had grown quite white. Her
mouth quivered. It was as though she were going to cry. And he had
never seen her cry.
"They--they aren't coming, Robert."
"N-not coming? W-why not?"
"There's been a row. Someone complained. Their people won't let them
come any more. Not to play with you. They say--they say----"
He went on fighting, swinging his sword, over his head, faster and
faster. Someone was pressing his heart so that he could hardly
breathe. It was all over. They knew. Everything was going. Finished.
"What do they say?"
"They say you're not a nice little boy----"
There were some tall weeds growing out of the tumbled bricks. He
slashed at them through the mist that was blinding him. He would cut
their heads off, one after another--just to show her.
"I don't care--I don't care----"
"That's why I waited this afternoon. I wanted to tell you. And that
I'd come--if you liked--sometimes--as often as I could----"
"I don't care--I don't care," he chanted.
One weed had fallen, cut in two as by a razor. Now another. You had
to be jolly strong to break them clean off like that. He wasn't
missing once.
"Don't!"
"I shall. Why shouldn't I? You couldn't do it like that."
Another. No one to play with any more. Never to be able to pretend
again that one was just like everyone else. People drawing away and
saying to each other, "He's not a nice little boy!"
"Please--please, don't, Robert!"
"Why not? They're only weeds--beastly, ugly things.
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