But instead of protests and capitulation, the critic stood to his colors.
“You don’t tell it at all the right way,” said the prejudiced public in the person of Master Jack. “You put in things that don’t belong. You tell it?” he said, suddenly turning to Mademoiselle Duvernoy, who had been smiling at my perplexity.
“Oh, but Mr. Littledale tells it very well.”
“You tell it yourself, and I’ll correct you,” I said, laughing.
The issue was settled by Master Jack who, with a sudden wriggle, transferred himself to the other chair. I rose to reclaim the truant, who had snuggled up to her shoulder, but she shook her head.
“No, no, he can stay.”
Her arms closed about the fluffy rascal, and she began.
“Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Snow-White, who lived with her father, a wood-chopper, in the woods—”
The youngster nodded, satisfied, glancing at me from time to time with malicious triumph as the narration ran along classic lines. Her voice was low, warmed with tenderness, and with the serio-comic pantomime of the story there came into her face a new light, all gentleness. I bent forward, listening to the melody of the voice without attention to the narrative, my eyes fixed on the mobile, fugitive expressions of her face. Why had she resisted the child at first,—shrinking from his touch? And, why this sudden melting?
“And the enchanted Prince came out and married Snow-White, and they lived happily, ever and ever after!”