The footman was in the act of helping Mr. Ogilvie to champagne, and Sibyl paused in her thoughts to watch the frothy wine as it filled the glass.
“Is it nice?” she inquired.
“Very nice, Sibyl. Would you like to taste it?”
“No, thank you, father. Nurse says if you drink wine when you’re a little girl, you grow up to be drunk as a hog.”
“My dear Sibyl,” cried the mother, “I really must speak to nurse. What a disgraceful thing to say!”
“Let us turn the subject,” said the father.
Sibyl turned it with a will.
“I ’spect I ought to ’fess to you,” she said. “I was cross myself to-day. Seems to me I’m not getting a bit perfect. I stamped my foot when Miss Winstead made me write all my spelling over again. Father, is it necessary for a little girl to spell long words?”
“You would not like to put wrong spelling into your letters to me, would you?” was the answer.
“I don’t think I’d much care,” said Sibyl, with a smile. “You’d know what I meant, wouldn’t you, whether I spelt the words right or not? All the same,” she added, “I’ll spell right if you wish it—I mean, I’ll try.”