“You are a selfish thing!” cried Colin.

“What are you?” said Mary.  “Selfish people always say that.  Any one is selfish who doesn’t do what they want.  You’re more selfish than I am.  You’re the most selfish boy I ever saw.”

“I’m not!” snapped Colin.  “I’m not as selfish as your fine Dickon is!  He keeps you playing in the dirt when he knows I am all by myself.  He’s selfish, if you like!”

Mary’s eyes flashed fire.

“He’s nicer than any other boy that ever lived!” she said.  “He’s—­he’s like an angel!” It might sound rather silly to say that but she did not care.

“A nice angel!” Colin sneered ferociously.  “He’s a common cottage boy off the moor!”

“He’s better than a common Rajah!” retorted Mary.  “He’s a thousand times better!”

Because she was the stronger of the two she was beginning to get the better of him.  The truth was that he had never had a fight with any one like himself in his life and, upon the whole, it was rather good for him, though neither he nor Mary knew anything about that.  He turned his head on his pillow and shut his eyes and a big tear was squeezed out and ran down his cheek.  He was beginning to feel pathetic and sorry for himself—­not for any one else.

“I’m not as selfish as you, because I’m always ill, and I’m sure there is a lump coming on my back,” he said.  “And I am going to die besides.”

“You’re not!” contradicted Mary unsympathetically.

He opened his eyes quite wide with indignation.  He had never heard such a thing said before.  He was at once furious and slightly pleased, if a person could be both at the same time.

“I’m not?” he cried.  “I am!  You know I am!  Everybody says so.”

“I don’t believe it!” said Mary sourly.  “You just say that to make people sorry.  I believe you’re proud of it.  I don’t believe it!  If you were a nice boy it might be true—­but you’re too nasty!”

In spite of his invalid back Colin sat up in bed in quite a healthy rage.

“Get out of the room!” he shouted and he caught hold of his pillow and threw it at her.  He was not strong enough to throw it far and it only fell at her feet, but Mary’s face looked as pinched as a nutcracker.

“I’m going,” she said.  “And I won’t come back!”

She walked to the door and when she reached it she turned round and spoke again.

“I was going to tell you all sorts of nice things,” she said.  “Dickon brought his fox and his rook and I was going to tell you all about them.  Now I won’t tell you a single thing!”

She marched out of the door and closed it behind her, and there to her great astonishment she found the trained nurse standing as if she had been listening and, more amazing still—­she was laughing.  She was a big handsome young woman who ought not to have been a trained nurse at all, as she could not bear invalids and she was always making excuses to leave Colin to Martha or any one else who would take her place.  Mary had never liked her, and she simply stood and gazed up at her as she stood giggling into her handkerchief.