“We don’t do justice, but we have to do scales, Jane and me,” said Anthea, “twenty minutes a day. It’s simply horrid.”
“What are scales?” asked the Queen, “and what is Jane?”
“Jane is my little sister. One of the guards-at-the-gate’s wife is taking care of her. And scales are music.”
“I never heard of the instrument,” said the Queen. “Do you sing?”
“Oh, yes. We can sing in parts,” said Anthea.
“That is magic,” said the Queen. “How many parts are you each cut into before you do it?”
“We aren’t cut at all,” said Robert hastily. “We couldn’t sing if we were. We’ll show you afterwards.”
“So you shall, and now sit quiet like dear children and hear me do justice. The way I do it has always been admired. I oughtn’t to say that, ought I? Sounds so conceited. But I don’t mind with you, dears. Somehow I feel as though I’d known you quite a long time already.”
The Queen settled herself on her throne and made a signal to her attendants. The children, whispering together among the cushions on the steps of the throne, decided that she was very beautiful and very kind, but perhaps just the least bit flighty.
The first person who came to ask for justice was a woman whose brother had taken the money the father had left for her. The brother said it was the uncle who had the money. There was a good deal of talk and the children were growing rather bored, when the Queen suddenly clapped her hands, and said—