"Yes, dad," added Geraldine, "and we were thinking that if those family portraits of the ever-so-old Ellis folks were at all like the real people, it's rather a good thing that we haven't got their presence of mind and body here now."
Mr. Ellis suddenly looked up with real displeasure. He was absurdly proud of his family, and resented, even from his children, anything that seemed like a slight to his ancestors.
"This is quite unbearable," he said, rising from his seat. "I see I have been over-indulgent to you, and you take advantage. I am seriously displeased at your want of respect in speaking of those whose portraits you see in the dining-room. Go upstairs—both of you—and consider yourselves in disgrace for the rest of the day."
[CHAPTER III.]
A DESPERATE PLAN.
THE twins eyed each other in consternation. Peevish fault-finding by their father was common enough, and they had grown quite used to it, but punishment was a thing well-nigh unheard of, and they had made the sudden discovery that any fault they might commit, any scrape into which they might fall, all counted for nothing. The only fault that was past forgiveness was a laughing word against this hobby of his, and what he deemed the honour of his house.
The children said not a word in protest. Out of the room they went instantly, Gerald glaring angrily over his shoulder at his father, Geraldine with her little dark head held very high, and her small nose tilted.
Up they went to their own bedrooms, but kept the door open between, so as to talk freely.
"Now then, what do you think of that, Dina?" exclaimed Gerald, standing in the doorway.
"Think of it? Why, of course it's unjust. We'd done and said nothing naughty a bit, and anyway it was only a joke, and couldn't hurt any old ancestors."