Well, he came up to me that day, and said something about my bunch of roses.
"They are like you, Kitty," he says.
"I don't see it," said I.
"No, of course you don't; you can't see yourself," Rupert answered humbly, though in a sort of tone as if he was sure. "Look!" and he touched a pink blossom with his big hand.
I snatched it away, for I thought he would crush the delicate thing; and I always did tease Rupert for his clumsiness whenever I had a chance. He didn't seem to mind, commonly.
"Kitty, you needn't be afraid," he said in a hurt voice. "You don't think I'd be rough with anything you care for?"
"I don't know. How can I tell?" I asked. "You needn't handle my roses, any way. Don't you know you always smash whatever you take hold of."
"Not if it's yours, Kitty," says he.
"Oh, that don't make any difference," says I. "It's having such great huge fingers."
"I'd make them small if I could, but I can't," said he dolefully.