“Oh, because Beauty—” began Sybil.
“But who was Beauty, in the first place?” interrupted heir uncle.
“Beauty was a pretty, sweet young lady,” replied Sybil.
“Oh, indeed. Like you or Lotty, perhaps?” he suggested.
“No, oh no. Not a little girl. A young lady, Uncle. A big young lady, like——like——oh, yes! Just like Miss Freer. A pretty, sweet young lady, just like Miss Freer.”
“And she turned the Beast into a beautiful prince, you say? I wonder how ever she could do that,” he said, thoughtfully.
“Can’t you guess? Well, I will tell you,” said Sybil, full of importance. “You see, the Beast was very good and kind, though he was ugly. And the fairy fixed that whenever any pretty young lady would love him for being good and kind, and not mind his being ugly, then that minute he was to turn into a beautiful prince. So the very minute Beauty said, ‘I do love you, my dear good Beast,’ he turned into the prince. Isn’t it a pretty story, Uncle, and don’t you think Beauty must have been just like Miss Freer?”
“A very pretty story, indeed, Sybil,” replied he, to the first question; but to the second he made no answer. As he lay on the ground, however, he managed to glance up slyly to see how the “big young lady” took all these rather personal remarks. But he did not get much satisfaction. Marion’s face was rather graver than usual, but for all other change in its expression, her thoughts might have been far away, too far away to have paid any heed to the child’s chattering.
What was she really thinking?
The old puzzle: “I wonder how Sir Ralph and Miss Vyse get on together!” And why from the first have I disliked the one and liked the other?”