She had
rather expected her to be shocked--she had almost, if you can
understand, _wished_ her to be shocked, so that she could say to
herself how naughty everybody thought her, how it was no use her
trying to be good and all the rest of it--and she had told over what
she had done in a hard, _un_sorry way, almost on purpose. But
now, when her mother spoke so kindly, a different feeling came into
her heart. She looked at her mother, and then she looked down on the
ground, and then, almost to her own surprise, she answered, almost
humbly,
"I don't know. I don't think I was, but I think I am a little sorry
now."
Seeing her so unusually gentle, her mother went a little further.
"What made you so vexed with Colin?" she asked. Rosy's face hardened.
"Mother," she said, "you'd better not ask me. It was because of
something he said that I don't want to tell you."
"About Beata?" asked her mother.
"Well," said Rosy, "if you know about it, it isn't my fault if you are
vexed. I don't want her to come--I don't want _any_ little girl
to come, because I know I shan't like her. I like boys better than
girls, and I don't like good little girls _at all_."
"Rosy," said her mother, "you are talking so sillily that if Fixie
even talked like that I should be quite surprised. I won't answer you.
I will not say any more about Beata--you know what I wish, and what is
right, and so I will leave it to you.
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