“Oh, come in, of course; I want to speak to you.”
Sibyl entered. Nurse had changed her holland frock, and dressed the little girl in pale pink silk. The dress was very unsuitable, but it became the radiant little face and bright, large eyes, and pathetic, sweet mouth, to perfection.
Sibyl ran up to her mother, and, dropping on one knee by her side, looked up into her face.
“Now you’ll kiss me,” she said; “now you’re pleased with your own Sibyl. I am pretty, I’m beautiful, and you, darling mother, will kiss me.”
“Get up, Sib, and don’t be absurd,” said Mrs. Ogilvie; but as she spoke a warm light came into her eyes, for the child was fascinating, and just in the mood to appeal most to her mother.
“Really,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “you do look nice in that dress, it fits you very well. Turn round, and let me see how it is made at the back. Ah! I told Mademoiselle Leroe to make it in that style; that little watteau back is so very becoming to small girls. Turn round now slowly, and let me get the side view. Yes, it is a pretty dress; be sure you don’t mess it. You are to come down with the other children to dessert. You had better go now, I am tired.”
“But Mummy—Mumsy!”
“Don’t call me Mummy or Mumsy, say mother. I don’t like abbreviations.”
“What’s that?” asked Sibyl, knitting her brows.
“Mummy or Mumsy are abbreviations of a very sacred name.”