“You are my friend,” he said, quietly.
I drew my arm roughly from his.
“If you are mine,” said I, “when I want your advice I’ll ask it.”
He looked at me a moment doubtfully with his big eyes. Then he said, “I was afraid of this; we never quarrelled before, Fred.”
“And we shouldn’t quarrel now,” I cried, “if you’d mind your own business.”
“It is my business,” he persisted—doggedly, as I thought.
“What’s your business?” I demanded, with rising rage.
“To beg you not to be a fool,” he replied, steadily.
My temper had already gone. My self-control now deserted me as I stopped abruptly, and turned to him.
“Your business!” I exclaimed, bitterly.