When bed-time came, and Philip was still absent, we became uneasy, and as I lay sleepless that night I asked myself if I had been to blame for the sulks in which he had gone off.  In fits of passion Philip had often threatened to go away and never let us hear of him again.  I knew that such things did happen, and it made me unhappy when he went off like this, although his threats had hitherto been no more than a common and rather unfair device of ill-temper.

CHAPTER VIII.

I HEAR FROM PHILIP—­A NEW PART WANTED—­I LOSE MY TEMPER—­WE ALL LOSE OUR TEMPERS.

Next morning’s post brought the following letter from Philip:—­

“MY DEAR ISOBEL,

“You need not bother about the Dragon—­I’ll do it.  But I wish you would put another character into the piece.  It is for Clinton.  He says he will act with us.  He says he can do anything if it is a leading part.  He has got black velvet knickerbockers and scarlet stockings, and he can have the tunic and cloak I wore last year, and the flap hat; and you must lend him your white ostrich feather.  Make him some kind of a grandee.  If you can’t, he must be the Prince, and Charles can do some of the Travellers.  We are going out on the marsh this morning, but I shall be with you after luncheon, and Clinton in the evening.  He does not want any rehearsing, only a copy of the plan.  Let Alice make it, her writing is the clearest, and I wish she would make me a new one; I’ve torn mine, and it is so dirty, I shall never be able to read it inside the Dragon.  Don’t forget.

“Your affectionate brother,

“PHILIP.”

There are limits to one’s patience, and with some of us they are not very wide.  Philip had passed the bounds of mine, and my natural indignation was heightened by a sort of revulsion from last night’s anxiety on his account.  His lordly indifference to other people’s feelings was more irritating than the trouble he gave us by changing his mind.

“You won’t let him take the Woolly Beast from me, Isobel?” cried Charles.  “And you know you promised to lend me your ostrich plume.”

“Certainly not,” said I.  “And you shall have the feather.  I promised.”

“If Mr. Clinton acts—­I shan’t,” said Alice.

“Mr. Clinton won’t act,” said I, “I can’t alter the piece now.  But I wish, Alice, you were not always so very ready to drive things into a quarrel.”

“If we hadn’t given way to Philip so much he wouldn’t think we can bear anything,” said Alice.

I could not but feel that there was some truth in this, and that it was a dilemma not provided against in Aunt Isobel’s teaching, that one may be so obliging to those one lives with as to encourage, if not to teach them to be selfish.