'Ah, you never would tell me that,' he said, 'You always had your
little mysteries. You dear children! What a difference you made
to that old Bloomsbury house! I wish I could dream you oftener.
Now you're grown up you're not like you used to be.'
'Grown up?' said Anthea.
The learned gentleman pointed to a frame with four photographs in
it.
'There you are,' he said.
The children saw four grown-up people's portraits--two ladies,
two gentlemen--and looked on them with loathing.
'Shall we grow up like THAT?' whispered Jane. 'How perfectly
horrid!'
'If we're ever like that, we sha'n't know it's horrid, I expect,'
Anthea with some insight whispered back. 'You see, you get used
to yourself while you're changing. It's--it's being so sudden
makes it seem so frightful now.'
The learned gentleman was looking at them with wistful kindness.
'Don't let me undream you just yet,' he said. There was a pause.
'Do you remember WHEN we gave you that Amulet?' Cyril asked
suddenly.
'You know, or you would if you weren't a dream, that it was on
the 3rd December, 1905. I shall never forget THAT day.'
'Thank you,' said Cyril, earnestly; 'oh, thank you very much.'
'You've got a new room,' said Anthea, looking out of the window,
'and what a lovely garden!'
'Yes,' said he, 'I'm too old now to care even about being near
the Museum. This is a beautiful place. Do you know--I can
hardly believe you're just a dream, you do look so exactly real.
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