“It’s not diverting,” said Sibyl, “it’s cruel, it’s mean, it’s wrong; it’s lies—black lies. Now you know.”
“But whom did I tell?”
“Somebody, and somebody told me—I’m not going to tell who told me.”
“Even suppose I did say anything of the sort, what do you know about that word?”
“I found it out. An unscroopolus person is a person who doesn’t act right. Do you know that my father never did wrong, never from the time he was borned? My father is quite perfect, God made him so.”
“Your father is a very nice fellow, Sibyl.”
“He is much better than nice, he is perfect; he never did anything wrong. He is perfect, same as Lord Jesus is perfect.”
The little girl looked straight out into the summer landscape. Her lips trembled, on each cheek there flushed a crimson rose.
Lord Grayleigh shuffled his feet. Had anyone in all the world told him that he would have listened quietly, and with a sense of respect, to such a story as he was now hearing, he would have roared with laughter. But he was not at all inclined to laugh now that he found himself face to face with Sibyl.
“And mother is perfect, too,” she said, turning and facing him.