"I never tell Antoinette she will be a beauty," Mrs. Busby went on severely.
"Well, I don't think she will. Not her style."
"Is it my style to be ugly, papa?" cried the injured daughter.
"Where will you see such a skin as Antoinette's?" asked the mother.
"Skin isn't everything. My dear, don't be perverse," said Mr. Busby, in his husky tones which sounded so oddly. "Nettie's a pretty little girl, and I am glad of it; but don't you go to making a fool of her by making her think she is more. You had just as fine a skin when I married you; but that wasn't what I married you for."
Rotha wondered what her aunt had married Mr. Busby for! However, if there had once been a peach-blossom skin at one end of the table, perhaps there had been also some corresponding charm at the other end; a sweet voice, for instance. Both equally gone now. Meantime Antoinette was crying, and Mrs. Busby looking more annoyed than Rotha had ever seen her. Her self- command still did not fail her, and she pursed up her lips and kept silence. Rotha wanted a potatoe, but the potatoes were before Mrs. Busby, and she dared not ask for it. The silence was terrible.
"What's the matter, Nettie?" said her father at length. "Don't be silly.
I don't believe Rotha would cry if I told her her skin was brown."
"You've said enough to please Rotha!" Antoinette sobbed.
"And it is unnecessary to be constantly comparing your daughter with some one else," said Mrs. Busby. "Can't we talk of some other subject, more useful and agreeable?"
Then Rotha summoned up her courage, with her heart beating.