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“Certainly,” said Aunt Isobel.

“To begin with, I don’t want you to think me any better than I am. When we were very very little, Philip and I used to spit at each other, and pull each other’s hair out. I do not do nasty or unladylike things now when I am angry, but, Aunt Isobel, my ‘besetting sin’ is not conquered, it’s only civilized.”

“I quite agree with you,” said Aunt Isobel; which rather annoyed me. I gulped this down, however, and went on:

“The sin of ill-temper, if it is a sin,” I began. I paused, expecting an outburst, but Aunt Isobel sat quite composedly, and fingered her eyelashes.

“Of course the Rector would be horrified if I said such a thing at the confirmation-class,” I continued, in a dissatisfied tone.

“Don’t invent grievances, Isobel, for I see you have a real stumbling-block, when we can come to it. You are not at the confirmation-class, and I am not easily horrified.”

“Well, there are two difficulties–I explain very stupidly,” said I with some sadness.

“We’ll take them one at a time,” replied Aunt Isobel with an exasperating blandness, which fortunately stimulated me to plain-speaking.

“Everybody says one ought to ‘restrain’ one’s temper, but I’m not sure if I think one ought. Isn’t it better to have things out? Look at Philip. He’s going to be confirmed, and then he’ll go back to school, and when he and another boy quarrel, they’ll fight it out, and feel comfortable afterwards. Aunt Isobel, I can quite understand feeling friendly after you’ve had it out, even if you’re the one who is beaten, if it has been a fair fight. Now restraining your temper means forcing yourself to be good outside, and feeling all the worse inside, and feeling it longer. There is that utterly stupid little schoolroom-maid, who is under my orders, that I may teach her. Aunt Isobel, you would not credit how often I tell her the same thing, and how politely she says ‘Yes, miss!’ and how invariably she doesn’t do it after all. I say, ‘You know I told you only yesterday. What is the use of my trying to teach you?’ and all kinds of mild things like that; but really I quite hate her for giving me so much trouble and taking so little herself, and I wish I might discharge her. Now, if only it wasn’t wrong to throw–what are those things hot-tempered gentlemen always throw at their servants?”

“Don’t ask me, my dear; ask Mr. Rampant.”

“Oh, he throws everything. Bootjacks–that’s it. Now, if only I might throw a bootjack at her, it would waken her up, and be such a relief to my feelings, that I shouldn’t feel half so unforgiving towards her all along. Then as to swearing, Aunt Isobel–“

“Swearing!” ejaculated my aunt.

“Of course swearing is very wrong, and all profane-speaking but I do think it would be a help if there was some innocent kind of strong language to use when one feels strongly.”

“If we didn’t use up all our innocent strong language by calling things awful and horrible that have not an element of awe or horror in them, we should have some left for our great occasions,” said Aunt Isobel.

“Perhaps,” said I, “but that’s not exactly what I mean. Now do you think it would be wrong to invent expletives that mean nothing bad? As if Mr. Rampant were to say, ‘Cockatoos and kingfishers! where are my shooting-boots?’ For you know I do think it would make him more comfortable to put it in that way, especially if he had been kept waiting for them.”

I paused, and Aunt Isobel turned round.

“Let us carry your idea well forward, Isobel. Bootjacks and expletives would no doubt be a relief to the thrower when hurled at servants or some one who could not (or from principle would not) retaliate, and the angry feelings that propelled them might be shortened by ‘letting off the steam,’ so to speak. But imagine yourself to have thrown a bootjack at Philip to relieve your feelings, and Philip (to relieve his) flinging it back at you. This would only give fresh impetus to your indignation, and whatever you threw next would not be likely to soothe his.”