"Can't we do one teeny miracle?" Tony would beseech, but Meg was firm; she would have nothing to do with either miracles nor yet with angels. Little Fay ardently desired to be an angel, but Meg wouldn't have it at any price.
"You're not in the least like an angel, you know," she said severely.
"What for?"
"Because angels are perfectly good."
"I could pletend to be puffectly good."
"Let's play Johnny Baptist," suggested the ever-helpful Tony, "and we could pittend to bring in his head on a charger."
"Certainly not," Meg said hastily. "That would be a horrid game."
"Let me be the daughter!" little Fay implored, "and dance in flont of Helod."
This was permitted, and Tony, decorated
with William's chain, sat gloomily scowling at the gyrations of "the daughter," who, assisted by William, danced all over the nursery: and Meg, watching the representation, decided that if the original "daughter" was half as bewitching as this one, there really might have been some faint excuse for Herod.