Beata was not pretty. That was the first thing Rosy decided about her. She was small, and rather brown and thin. She had dark hair, certainly like Lady Albertine's in colour, but instead of splendid curls it was cut quite short—as short almost as Colin's—and her eyes were neither very large nor very blue. They were nice gray eyes, that could look sad, but generally looked merry, and about the rest of her face there was nothing very particular.
Rosy looked at her for a moment or two, and she looked at Rosy. Then at last Rosy said,
"Will you come into the drawing-room?" for she saw that her mother and Beata's uncle were already on their way there.
"Thank you," said Beata, and then they quietly followed the big people. Rosy's father was not at home, but he would be back soon, her mother was telling the gray-haired gentleman, and then she went on to ask him how "they" had got off, if it had been comfortably, and so on.
"Oh yes," he replied, "it was all quite right. Poor Maud!—"
"That's my mamma," said Beata in a low voice, and Rosy, turning towards her, saw that her eyes were full of tears.
"What a queer little girl she is!" thought Rosy, but she did not say so.
"—Poor Maud," continued the gentleman. "It is a great comfort to her to leave the child in such good hands."
"I hope she will be happy," said Rosy's mother. "I will do my best to make her so."
"I am very sure of that," said Beata's uncle. "It is a great disappointment to her grandmother not to have her with her. She is a dear child. Last week at the parting she behaved like a brick."