"It's no more sad about her than about any other picture," I said, rather crossly. Sometimes I do get cross with Tib when she is sentimental. I'm sure I don't know why—it is ill-natured. "I wonder," I went on, more eagerly, "I wonder if possibly she could be the portrait of the oldish lady—when the oldish lady was young, you know, Tib, for she is so like Regina."
It was Tib's turn to snub me now.
"The portrait of that lady," she said. "My goodness, Gussie! for it to be her portrait she would need to be about a hundred and twenty years old. Can't you tell that by the dress, and the look of the picture?"
"Well, never mind," I said. "We can't find out anything about her, so it's no use squabbling. We must go, Tib; I'm sure it's late; and we don't want to do anything that could vex nurse just as grandpapa's coming, for you know he always asks her if we've been good."
"Come along, then," said Tib.
We walked slowly down the long passage and into the conservatory, where everything looked just exactly the same as the first day we had seen it.
"Oh dear, I am so unhappy!" said Gerald, again. "I've got a feeling that all the nice has finished."
"Open the door quick, Gerald, or let me do it, and don't make things worse by talking nonsense."
Gerald turned to the door—the key was sticking in the lock, as I said—Gerald always left it after locking it.
"Do be quick," said Tib, impatiently.