Then he did laugh; he laughed aloud.
“Oh, no,” he said.
“So you don’t wonder that I hate you,” continued Sibyl, taking no notice of that last remark. “It’s ’cos you like to tell lies about good people. My father is perfect, and you called him unscroopolus. No wonder I hate you.”
“Listen now, little girl.” Lord Grayleigh took the hot, trembling hand, and drew the child to his side.
“Don’t shrink away, don’t turn from me,” he said; “I am not so bad as you make me out. If I did make use of such an expression, I have forgotten it. Men of the world say lots of things that little girls don’t understand. Little girls of eight years old, if they are to grow up nice and good, and self-respecting, must take the world on trust. So you must take me on trust, and believe that even if I did say what you accuse me of saying, I still have a great respect for your father. I think him a right down good fellow.”
“The best in all the world?” queried Sibyl.
“I am sure at least of one thing, that no little girl ever had a fonder father.”
“And you own up you told a lie? You do own up that father’s quite perfect?”
“Men like myself don’t care to own themselves in the wrong,” said Lord Grayleigh, “and the fact is—listen, you queer little mortal—I don’t like perfect people. It is true that I have never met any.”
“You have met my father and my mother.”