But he was at my side.
"Kitty—Kitty—I didn't mean to vex you," says he, in a sort of wheedling manner. "Just say you're not vexed. Say we can be friends still."
"Friends!" I said, and I turned to look at him. I hadn't a wish for any more soft words. A change seemed to have come over me. Perhaps it had been coming long, though I didn't find it out till then. "Friends!" I said.
"Well, yes," said he. "We've been friends, haven't we?"
And I said—I couldn't help it, for the words seemed to be squeezed out of me, I thinking of my poor father—
"No! You've been the worst enemy I ever had."
I didn't add another word. "Least said—" was sounding in a whisper somewhere. I had to say enough, but not too much. There's never any good in piling on a lot of words, if one dozen are all that's wanted.
"Kitty!" says he, as if he was confounded.
I didn't speak.
"You don't mean that," says he, wheedling again.