"Please don't be cross," said Fiona, humbly. "I am only doing what you told me to do."
"Bless you, child, I'm not cross," said the centipede. "I'm a philosopher."
"Don't philosophers get cross?" asked the girl.
"Never," said the centipede. "And when they do they call it something else. What's the matter with me is, that I've sprained my seventh ankle on bow side, counting from the tail. Don't say you're sorry, for you're not. Anyone can see you're not."
"You are horrid to-day," said Fiona. "And the other day you were so nice."
"That's what makes me such a charming companion," said the centipede. "You never know what to expect. So I never pall."
"I want to know where the Urchin is, and how I am to find him," said Fiona.
"Is that all?" said the centipede. "Fancy interrupting my breakfast on account of that boy. Well, one question at a time. We'll have the last one first; I'm in that sort of mood to-day."
"How can I find the Urchin, then, please?" asked Fiona.
"Well, you've been told that already," said the centipede. "Haven't you a memory?"