"Well, it's getting late, and I must be gone. Good-bye, Kitty," said Mr. Russell.
He must have been flurried by Rupert's sudden coming, to call me "Kitty" before another. I saw it was a forget, by his start; but the word once said couldn't be unsaid, and I suppose he thought he'd better carry it off well, so he gave a little laugh, and repeated, "Good-bye, Kitty!" in a tone as if he'd been speaking to a child.
Then he was gone; and Rupert and I were left together. I would have run away, but I did not.
"You've been crying," Rupert said, very short.
"It's not your business if I have," I said.
"About that worthless chap, I suppose? And he daring to call you 'Kitty!'" Rupert looked as if he was ready to foam at the mouth, and yet it was in a sort of dead-quiet way, not like a man in a regular passion.
"You call me 'Kitty,'" I said, "and I'd rather you wouldn't."
"Kitty, this can't go on," says he in a hoarse voice.
"No. I would rather you should leave off calling me 'Kitty,'" I said, not knowing what he meant by "this." "I'm not a child now," I said, "and I don't like the way you behave."
"Behave!" Rupert burst out, and then he pulled himself in, and spoke quiet again: "What will your mother say, Kitty?"