I felt something new in Beela’s manner,—a note of sentiment singing low in her voice, an augmented softness and grace in her bearing. She appeared to be struggling against it and striving to be the boy Beelo. Some success came, but the winning note still sang in her throat.
She opened an adjoining room, and disclosed a bath.
“Your Senatra tint is a little damaged,” she cheerily said. “Wash it off; you’ll not need it tonight. Here’s a fresh supply for tomorrow morning. Don’t forget to put it on! But there’s much to do before you sleep. I am going to take you to the Council Chamber. Dress as quickly as possible. I have to make some changes myself. When you are ready, give three light taps on that door.”
“Thank you, dear little brother, but where’s Lentala?”
“Lentala! Do you think she can sit up all night waiting for callers?”
“We are to see her in the morning, then?”
Beela had been bustling over finishing touches for our comfort, but my question—perhaps my tone—stopped her.
“Do you wish to see her?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Why?”