In this spirit also they viewed the plaster statue of Washington in the lower hall, and the Roger's group in the parlour. The glass cabinet of “curiosities” interested her greatly—the carved ivory chessmen, the dried sea-weeds, the stone from Sugar Loaf Rock, the bit from the wreck of the NORTH STAR, the gold and silver shells, the glittering geodes and pyrites, the sandal-wood fan, and all the hundred and one knick-knacks it was then the custom to collect under glass. They even ventured part way up the creaky attic stairs, but it was too dark to enter that mysterious region.
“I hear the drip of water,” she whispered, her finger on her lips.
“It's the tank,” said Orde.
“And has it a Dark Place behind it?” she begged.
“That's just what it has,” said he.
“And—tell me—are there real hair trunks with brass knobs on 'em?”
“Yes, mother has two or three.”
“O-o-h!” she breathed softly. “Don't tell me what's in them. I want to believe in brocades and sashes. Do you know,” she looked at him soberly, “I never had any dark places behind the tank, nor mysterious trunks, when I was a child.”
“You might begin now,” suggested Orde.
“Do you mean to insinuate I haven't grown up?” she mocked. “Thank you! Look OUT!” she cried suddenly, “the Boojum will catch us,” and picking up her skirts she fairly flew down the narrow stairs. Orde could hear the light swish of her draperies down the hall, and then the pat of her feet on the stair carpet of the lower flight.