“That you would not be pretty.”
“Neither I am—no more nor yourselves. Are you the two frights in goggles that went by on the motor? What has become of it?”
“It’s rather delicate just now.”
“Well, then, I’m glad, and I hope it may die. I hate motors!”
“Really. And why?”
“Because they go hooting through the world, never caring what they do. One of them killed our neighbour’s old dog Joe, too stiff to clear out of the road; and as to the fowls and ducks they run over, and those no use after, there are scores!”
“Would you permit me to take a photograph?” said Sir Harry, suddenly swinging round a small snapshotting camera.
“Certainly, sir. You may take the cat. Here he is,” pulling him up, “and proud to sit for you”—and she held him in her arms.
A pretty picture! Snap! It was done—“Beauty and the Beast.”
“And now for yourself!”