"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.
"Yes, Fred, my business," he said, quietly, with a touch of sadness in
his tone.
"Then let me tell you," I exclaimed, forgetting everything but my
resentment, "I don't intend to be told my duty _by you of all people_!"
It was enough. He knew the meaning of those cowardly words. His face
turned suddenly pale, and his eyes dropped, as with a half-groan he
started to walk slowly on.
I would have given worlds to recall the words--worlds to be able to
seize his arm and beg his forgiveness. But my wicked vanity kept me
back, and I let him go on alone. Then I followed. It was the first of
many, many sad, solitary walks for me.