It was a long and disjointed story, told in the inconsequent fashion of a child of seven unused to converse with her elders; and continually interrupted by the aunt, who, fretful and dying for her tea, jingled her distracting bracelets and chains, fidgeted with the Anglo-Indian odds-and-ends of her raiment, and disconcerted the child by the futile verbal proddings; which are as bad for the infant mind as the criminal attempts to force a baby to use its legs are to the infant body.
"So! and you found the dear little kitten lying quite still in the nursery this morning?"
"Yes! Stwangled!"
"Do pronounce your r's, Leonie."
The child shivered in the man's arms.
"Who told you it was strangled?"
"Auntie!"
The man's hand closed for a moment on a heavy paper-weight as he looked across the room at the woman who was waggling her foot and knitting her scanty brows at the sound of the rending sobs.
"Auntie was mistaken, darling. Kitty was asleep, tired out with playing or running away from the dog next door."
Leonie shook her head. "Kitty's dead," she wailed, "lying all black and quiet, like—like my dweams!"