ed Beauty. And she thought to herself,
'Poor Father won't have any money left at all, if we all go on like
this!' So she didn't ask for anything very expensive, like her selfish
sisters, she only asked for a rose. A simple red rose."

Margery moved uneasily.

"I hope," she said wistfully, "this bit isn't going to be about--_you_
know. It never did before."

"About what?"

"Good little girls and bad little girls, and fings like that."

"My darling, no, of course not. I told it wrong. Beauty asked for a rose
because she loved roses so. And it was a very particular kind of red
rose that she wanted--a sort that they simply _couldn't_ get to grow in
their own garden because of the soil."

"Go on telling me," said Margery, with a deep sigh of content.

"Well, he started off to Weymouth."

"What day did he start?"

"It was Monday. And when----"

"Oh, well, anyhow, I told Daddy it was Tuesday."

"Tuesday--now let me think. Yes, I believe you're right. Because on
Monday he went to a meeting of the Vegetable Gardeners, and proposed the
health of the Chairman. Yes, well he started off on Tuesday, and when he
got there he found that there was no money for him at all!"

"I spex somebody had taken it," said Margery breathlessly.

"Well, it had all gone _somehow_."

"Prehaps somebody had swallowed it," said Margery, a little carried away
by the subject, "by mistake."

"Anyhow, it was gone. And he had to come home again without any money.
He hadn't gone far----"

"How far?" asked Margery. "As far as _that_?" and she measured nine
inches in the air.

"About forty-four miles--when he came to a beautiful garden."

"Was it a really lovely big garden? Bigger than ours?"

"Oh, much bigger."

"Bigger than yours?"

"I haven't got a garden."

Margery looked at me wonderingly. She opened her mouth to speak, and
then stopped and rested her head upon her hands and thought out this new
situation. At last, her face flushed with happiness, she announced her
decision.

"Go on telling me about Beauty and the Beast now," she said
breathlessly, "and _then_ tell me why you haven't got a garden."

My average time for Beauty and the Beast is ten minutes, and, if we stop
at the place where the Beast thought he was dead, six minutes
twenty-five seconds. But, with the aid of seemingly innocent questions,
a determined character can make even the craftiest uncle spin the story
out to half-an-hour.

"Next time," said Margery, whe