the morning. We'll open the shop from nine to twelve, and then we'll go to London and see life."
"Where shall we go?"
"We'll write all the places we want to go to on bits of paper and put them in a hat and shut our eyes and draw fair."
They did—only instead of putting the papers in a hat they put them in a Lowestoft bowl, and each drew a paper.
"Mine's the National Gallery," said Jane, in rather a disappointed voice; "and I wrote it myself, too. Serves me right."
"Mine's Madame Tussaud's," said Lucilla.
"Oh, well," said Jane, cheering up, "we'll go there first. I've never seen any waxworks and I've always wanted to most frightfully, ever since we read 'The Power of Darkness.' You remember about the young man who betted he would spend a night alone with the waxworks, and when it was dark one of the wax things moved or came alive or something? Oh—horrible!"
"We'd certainly better go there first," said Lucilla. "I don't think I should like those things at night—the guillotines, and Marie Antoinette's head, and Marat in his bath, and all the murderers. Do you remember that catalogue Kate Somers had? And she used to read bits out of it and make up stories to fit, till the little ones were afraid to go to bed. There was one horrible tale, do you remember, about poor little Madame Tussaud having to make wax models of the heads of kings and queens and people—just the heads—loose—no bodies you know—just as they came fresh from the guillotine? It must have been a nasty business—all the blood."
"Shut up!" said Jane firmly, "or you'll be afraid to go to bed. I know you! I'm not at all sure that I shall allow you to see the Chamber of Horrors at all."
"I'm not sure that I want to," Lucilla retorted.
But when they stood on the brink of the Chamber of Horrors she felt otherwise.
