"Well, the third daughter was called 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."