"Beata is sure to be pretty," thought Rosy. "I daresay she'll have
beautiful black hair, and blue eyes like Lady Albertine." Albertine
was Rosy's best doll. "And I daresay she'll be very clever, and play
the piano and speak French far better than me. I don't mind that. I
like pretty people, and I don't mind people being clever. What I don't
like is, people who are dedfully _good_ always going on about how
good they are, and how naughty _other_ people is. If she doesn't
do that way I shan't mind so much, but I'm sure she _will_ do
that way. Yes, Manchon," she said aloud, "I'm sure she will, and you
needn't begin 'froo'in' about it."
For Rosy was in the drawing-room when all these thoughts were passing
through her mind--she was there with her afternoon frock on, and a
pretty muslin apron, all nice to meet Beata and her uncle, who were
expected very soon. And Manchon was on the rug as usual, quite
peacefully inclined, poor thing, only Rosy could never believe any
good of Manchon, and when he purred, or, as she called it, "froo'ed,"
she at once thought he was mocking her. She really seemed to fancy the
cat was a fairy or a wizard of some kind, for she often gave him the
credit of reading her very thoughts!
The door opened, and her mother came in, leading Fixie by the hand and
Colin just behind.
"Oh, you're ready, Rosy," she said. "That's right.
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