'I wouldn't tell anybody but you, Nettie. Linda can't hear, can she?'
'Oh no, she's run on to the nursery.'
'Nettie,' he continued, 'it's not my room. It's the picshurs,' here he shook his head solemnly. 'It's having to pass the picshurs. It's dreadful. But, O Nettie, don't tell. It began last year when we was here. They try to catch me, Nettie. I'm almost sure they do. They come down off the wall and run after me—at least I fink they do.'
'But they can't,' said Nettie, very much impressed, but still full of common sense; 'they can't, Denis. Pictures is pictures—they can't walk or run. Just think, they're not alive—they're not even like dolls. They're only thin bits of paper or wood—or—or—whatever it is pictures are painted on.'
But Denis still shook his head.
'I know that,' he said. 'I've thought of that, but it's no good. When I'm not there I think that way, but as soon as I'm there it begins. Their eyes all look at me, and I'm sure they begin to get down to run after me as soon as I've passed. It's worst at night, like now, when the lamps is lighted. It isn't so bad in the day. But, O Nettie, it must be worstest in the moonlight,' and he gave a little shiver; 'don't you 'amember what Linda said about it—all the colours on the faces, you know?'
'But anyway,' said practical Nettie, 'you don't need to see them in the moonlight. You never need to go along there after the lamps are put out at night.'
'No,' said Denis, but not as if he found much consolation in the thought.
'And if you'd let me tell mother,' continued Nettie, 'I'm sure she'd change it some way. You might sleep with Alex, and Lam have your room.'