“Now, see what you’ve done.”

That most unaccountable of children, instead of being upset, merely grinned broadly.

“I do like you,” she said.

It was a most warming remark. It is the remark that one fancies perhaps erroneously that one’s dog would say if he could talk. It occurred to me that Megan, for all she looked like a horse, had the disposition of a dog. She was certainly not quite human.

“What did you say before the catastrophe?” I asked, carefully picking up the fragments of my cherished pipe.

“I said I supposed you thought me awful,” said Megan, but not at all in the same tone she had said it before.

“Why should I?”

Megan said gravely:

“Because I am.”

I said sharply:

“Don’t be stupid.”

Megan shook her head.

“That’s just it. I’m not really stupid. People think I am. They don’t know that inside I know just what they’re like, and that all the time I’m hating them.”

“Hating them?”

“Yes,” said Megan.

Her eyes, those melancholy, unchildlike eyes, stared straight into mine, without blinking. It was a long mournful gaze.

“You would hate people if you were like me,” she said. “If you weren’t wanted.”

“Don’t you think you’re being rather morbid?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Megan. “That’s what people always say when you’re saying the truth. And it is true. I’m not wanted and I can quite see why. Mummie doesn’t like me a bit. I remind her, I think, of my father, who was cruel to her and pretty dreadful from all I can hear. Only mothers can’t say they don’t want their children and just go away. Or eat them. Cats eat the kittens they don’t like. Awfully sensible, I think. No waste or mess. But human mothers have to keep their children, and look after them. It hasn’t been so bad while I could be sent away to school—but you see, what Mummie would really like is to be just herself and my stepfather and the boys.”

I said slowly:

“I still think you’re morbid, Megan, but accepting some of what you say as true, why don’t you go away and have a life of your own?”

She gave me an unchildlike smile.

“You mean take up a career. Earn my living?”

“Yes.”

“What at?”

“You could train for something, I suppose. Shorthand typing—bookkeeping.”

“I don’t believe I could. I am stupid about doing things. And besides—”

“Well?”

She had turned her face away, now she turned it slowly back again. It was crimson and there were tears in her eyes. She spoke now with all the childishness back in her voice.

“Why should I go away? And be made to go away? They don’t want me, but I’ll stay. I’ll stay and make everyone sorry. I’ll make them all sorry. Hateful pigs! I hate everyone here in Lymstock. They all think I’m stupid and ugly. I’ll show them. I’ll show them. I’ll—”

It was a childish, oddly pathetic rage.

I heard a step on the gravel round the corner of the house.