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 jobbed 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 toy-shop 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 tea; and she wants it so badly that she won’t walk that side of the street when we go into the town. But it costs five shillings!’ Then we set to work seriously, and devoted the afternoon to a realisation of assets and the composition of a Budget that might have been dated without shame from Whitehall. The result worked out as follows:— _s._ _d._ By one uncle, unspent through having been lost for nearly a week—turned up at last in the straw of the dog-kennel 2 6 By advance from me on security of next uncle, and failing that, to be called in at Christmas 1 0