"You horrid little yellow beast," she said, forgetting that he could understand, and made a dab at him with her spade, which, to her relief, missed him. She felt she had done her duty by hitting at him, but did not hide from herself that she had really missed him on purpose.
"Little's all right," said the centipede, "and yellow's all right; and though I'm not really a beast, we will let it go at that. But I'm not a bit horrid."
"But I don't like you," said Fiona, "and you wriggle so."
"In the circles in which I move," said the centipede, "my wriggling is much admired. And the mere fact that you do not like me—which, I may remind you, is only a subjective impression and has neither objective validity nor permanent value—does not entitle you to call me names. You ought to have learnt better, with that bangle of yours. For all you know, I may be a model of the more unselfish virtues."
"But you eat the roots of my flowers," said Fiona.
"That is the first I have heard of it," said the centipede. "But one lives and learns. It need not be the same one, though, who does both. So in the present case I propose that I should live and you should learn."
"I wasn't going to kill you really," said Fiona.
The centipede bowed.
"A little courtesy does oil the creaking machinery of life, doesn't it?" he said. "Please lift me up, for I have something to tell you, and your head is so far away. Shouting at you hurts my throat."
Fiona stooped down and took up the little yellow creature in her hand.