“I’m sure you’re dreadfully industrious,” said Mrs. Buller.
A little later she begged Eleanor to put it away.
“You’ll tire your eyes, my dear, I’m sure; pray rest a little and chat to us.”
“I don’t look at my knitting,” said Eleanor; but she put it away, and then sat looking rather red in the face, and somewhat encumbered with her empty hands, which were red too.
I think Uncle Buller noticed this; for he told us to get the big scrap-book and show it to Miss Arkwright.
Eleanor got cool again over the book; but she said little till, pausing before a small, black-looking print in a sheet full of rather coarse coloured caricatures, cuttings from illustrated papers and old-fashioned books, second-rate lithographs, and third-rate original sketches, fitted into a close patchwork, she gave a sort of half-repressed cry.
“My dear! What is it?” cried Matilda effusively.
“I think,” said Eleanor, looking for information to Aunt Theresa, “I think it’s a real Rembrandt, isn’t it?”
“A real what, my dear?” said Mrs. Buller.
“One of Rembrandt’s etchings,” said Eleanor; “and of course I don’t know, but I think it must be an original; it’s so beautifully done, and my mother has a copy of this one. We know ours is a copy, and I think this must be an original, because all the things are turned the other way; and it’s very old, and it’s beautifully done,” Eleanor repeated, with her face over the little black print.