“Please don’t!” said I.  “Aunt Isobel, I could never throw a hatchet again.”

“You are bold to promise to stop short anywhere when relieving passionate feelings by indulgence has begun on two sides.  And, my dear, matters are no better where the indulgence is in words instead of blows.  In the very mean and undignified position of abusing those who cannot return your abuse it might answer; but ’innocent strong language’ would cease to be of any good when it was returned.  If to ‘Cockatoos and kingfishers! where are my shooting-boots?’ an equally violent voice from below replied, ’Bats and blackbeetles! look for them yourself!’ some stronger vent for the steam of hot temper would have to be found, and words of any kind would soon cease to relieve the feelings.  Isobel, I have had long and hard experience, and your ideas are not new ones to me.  Believe me, child, the only real relief is in absolute conquest, and the earlier the battle begins, the easier and the shorter it will be.  If one can keep irritability under, one may escape a struggle to the death with passion.  I am not cramming principles down your throat—­I say as a matter of personal practice, that I do not know, and never hope to find a smoother or a shorter way.  But I can say also—­after Victory comes Peace.”

I gave a heavy sigh.

“Thank you, Aunt Isobel, I will try; but it makes my second difficulty all the worse.  I can fancy that I might possibly learn self-control; I can fancy by main force holding my tongue, or compelling it to speak very slowly and civilly:  but one can’t force one’s feelings.  Aunt Isobel, if I had been very much insulted or provoked, I might keep on being civil for years on the outside, but how I should hate!  You can’t prevent yourself hating.  People talk about ‘forgive and forget.’  If forgiving means doing no harm, and forgetting means behaving quite civilly, as if nothing had happened, one could.  But of course it’s nonsense to talk of making yourself really forget anything.  And I think it’s just as absurd to talk of making yourself forgive, if forgiveness means feeling really kindly and comfortable as you did before.  The very case in which I am most sure you are right about self-control is one of the worst the other way.  I ought to be ashamed to speak of it—­but I mean the hatchet-quarrel.  If I had been very good instead of very wicked, and had restrained myself when Philip pulled all my work to pieces, and jeered at me for being miserable, I couldn’t have loved him again as I did before.  Forgive and forget!  One would often be very glad to.  I have often awoke in the morning and known that I had forgotten something disagreeable, and when it did come back I was sorry; but one’s memory isn’t made of slate, or one’s heart either, that one can take a wet sponge and make it clean.  Oh dear!  I wonder why ill-tempered people are allowed to live!  They ought to be smothered in their cradles.”

Aunt Isobel was about to reply, but I interrupted her.