My average time for Beauty and the Beast is ten minutes, and, if we stop at the place when 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, when we had reached the appointed place and she was being tucked up in bed, "will you tell me ALL the story?" Was there the shadow of a smile in her eyes? I don't know. But I'm sure it will be wisest next time to promise her the whole thing. We must make that point clear at the very start, and then we shall get along. II.--THE LITERARY ART MARGERY has a passion for writing just now. I can see nothing in it myself, but if people WILL write, I suppose you can't stop them. "Will you just lend me your pencil?" she asked. "Remind me to give you a hundred pencils some time," I said as I took it out, "and then you'll always have one. You simply eat pencils." "Oo, I gave it you back last time." "Only just. You inveigle me down here--" "What do I do?" "I'm not going to say that again for anybody." "Well, may I have the pencil?" I gave her the pencil and a sheet of paper, and settled her in a chair. "B-a-b-y," said Margery to herself, planning out her weekly article for the Reviews. "B-a-b-y, baby." She squared her elbows and began to write.... "There!" she said, after five minutes' composition. The manuscript was brought over to the critic, and the author stood proudly by to point out subtleties that might have been overlooked at a first reading. "B-a-b-y," explained the author. "Baby." "Yes, that's very good; very neatly expressed. 'Baby'--I like that." "Shall I write some more?" said Margery eagerly. "Yes, do write some more. This is good, but it's not long enough." The author retired again, and in five minutes produced this:-- B A B Y "That's 'baby,'" explained Margery. "Yes, I like that baby better than the other one. It's more spread out. And it's bigger--it's one of the biggest babies I've seen." "Shall I write some more?" "Don't you write anything else ever?" "I like writing 'baby,'" said Margery carelessly. "B-a-b-y." "Yes, but you can't do much with just that one word. Suppose you wanted to write to a man at a shop--'Dear Sir,--You never sent me my boots. Please send them at once, as I want to go out this afternoon. I am, yours faithfully, Margery'--it would be no good simply putting 'B-a-b-y,' because he wouldn't know what you meant." "Well, what WOULD it be good putting?" "Ah, that's the whole art of writing--to know what it would be any good putting. You want to learn lots and lots of new words, so as to be ready. Now here's a jolly little one that you ought to meet." I took the pencil and wrote GOT. "Got. G-o-t, got." Margery, her elbows on my knee and her chin resting on her hands, studied the position. "Yes, that's old 'got,'" she said.