“But where did we get it?” Cyril asked eagerly.
“Ah, you never would tell me that,” he said, “You always had your little mysteries. You dear children! What a difference you made to that old Bloomsbury house! I wish I could dream you oftener. Now you’re grown up you’re not like you used to be.”
“Grown up?” said Anthea.
The learned gentleman pointed to a frame with four photographs in it.
“There you are,” he said.
The children saw four grown-up people’s portraits—two ladies, two gentlemen—and looked on them with loathing.
“Shall we grow up like that?” whispered Jane. “How perfectly horrid!”
“If we’re ever like that, we sha’nn’t know it’s horrid, I expect,” Anthea with some insight whispered back. “You see, you get used to yourself while you’re changing. It’s—it’s being so sudden makes it seem so frightful now.”
The learned gentleman was looking at them with wistful kindness. “Don’t let me undream you just yet,” he said. There was a pause.
“Do you remember when we gave you that Amulet?” Cyril asked suddenly.