“He will do so, be sure,” said Hermione, smiling, and looking at her father.
He nodded, saying: “But let us have some supper first.”
He chatted gaily, and seemed in high spirits, and very happy, as he sat between the two little girls, his daughter Hermione on one side of him, Paulina on the other.
“How came you to tell me such a fib about your daughter?” said Paulina, suddenly.
“How do you mean?” was the reply.
“You told me she was pretty, didn’t you?”
“Yes; don’t you think her so?”
“No; she’s very different from pretty. She has the most beautiful face I ever saw. It’s like what I fancy a queen’s must be.”
“You hear how plain-spoken she is,” said Hermione’s father. “She told me just as openly,—but far less complimentarily,—what she thought of my face.”
Hermione gazed fondly upon the face in question, and smiled.