“Nothing special happened today, then?” asked Mr. Knapp in a cheerful voice, looking over at the erect, well-coifed housemother.
“Just the usual things,” answered Mrs. Knapp, reaching out to push Henry’s plate a little nearer to him. “I haven’t been out anywhere, and nobody has been in. Stephen, don’t eat so fast. Mattie telephoned. Their new car has come. Henry, do sit up straighter. You’ll be positively hunchbacked if you keep stooping over so.”
At the mention of Aunt Mattie and the new car, a self-conscious silence dropped over the older children and their father. They looked down at their plates.
“Helen, did you put salt on your potatoes?” asked her mother. “I don’t put in as much as we like, because the doctor says Henry shouldn’t eat things very salt.”
“I put some on,” said Helen.
“Enough?” asked her mother doubtfully. “You know it takes a lot for potatoes.”
Helen tasted her potatoes, as though she had not till then thought about them. “Yes, there’s enough,” she said.
“Let me taste them,” said her mother, holding out her hand for the plate. After she had tasted them she said, “Why, there’s not nearly enough, they’re perfectly flat. Here, give me that saltcellar.” She added the salt, tasted the potatoes again and pushed the plate back to Helen, who went on eating with small mouthfuls, chewing conscientiously.
There was another silence.
Mr. Knapp helped himself to another biscuit, and said as he spread it with butter, “Aren’t these biscuits simply great! You’d never know, by the taste, they were good for you, would you?”
Helen looked up quickly with a silent, amused smile. Her eyes met her father’s with understanding mirth.
“Take smaller mouthfuls, Stephen,” said Mrs. Knapp.
Nobody said a word, made a comment, least of all her husband, but she went on with some heat as if in answer to an unspoken criticism. “I know I keep at the children all the time! But how can I help it? They’ve got to learn, haven’t they? It certainly is no pleasure to me to do it! Somebody’s got to bring them up.”
The others quailed in silent remorse before this arraignment. Not so Stephen. He paid no attention whatever to it. His mother often said bitterly that he paid no attention to anything a grownup said unless you screamed at him and stamped your foot.
“Gimme some more meat,” he said heartily, pushing his plate towards his father.
“Say, ‘Please, Father,’ ” commanded his mother.
He looked blackly at her, longingly at the steak, decided that the occasion was not worth a battle and said, “Please, father,” in a tone which he contrived, with no difficulty whatever, to make insulting.
His mother’s worn, restrained face took on a deeper shade of disheartenment, but she did not lift the cast-down glove, and the provocative accent of rebellion continued to echo in the room triumphant and unchecked. It did not seem to increase the appetite of the other children. They kept their eyes cast down and made themselves small in their chairs.
It had no effect on Stephen’s enjoyment of his meal. He ate heartily, like a robust lumberman who has been battling with the elements all day and knows he must fortify himself for a continuation of the same struggle tomorrow. The mottled spots on his cheeks blended into his usual healthy red. He stopped eating for a moment to take a long and audible draught out of his mug.
“Don’t make a noise when you drink your milk,” said his mother.
The others ate lightly, sipping at their chocolate, taking tiny mouthfuls of the steak and potatoes.
“Helen’s school composition had quite a success,” said Helen’s father. “They are going to have some dramatics at the school and. …”
“What are dramatics?” asked Henry.
“Oh, that’s the general name for plays, comedies, you know, and tragedies and. …”
“What is a comedy?” asked Henry. “What is a tragedy?”
“Good Heavens, Henry,” said his father, laughingly, “I never saw anybody in my life who could ask as many questions as you. You wear the life out of me!”
“He doesn’t bother me with them,” said his mother, her inflection presenting the statement as a proof of her superior merit.
Henry shrank a little smaller. His father hastened to explain what a tragedy was and what a comedy was. Another silence fell. Then, “Quite cold today,” said Mr. Knapp. “The boys at the office said that the thermometer. …” He had tried to stop himself the moment the word “office” was out of his mouth. But it was too late. He stuck fast at “thermometer,” for an instant and then, hurriedly as if quite aware that no one cared how he finished the sentence, he added, “stood at only ten above this morning.”
Mrs. Knapp had glanced up sharply at the word “office” and her eyes had darkened at the pause afterwards. She was looking hard at her husband now, as if his hesitation, as if his accent had told her something. “Young Mr. Willing didn’t get back today, did he?” she asked gravely.
Mr. Knapp took a long drink of his hot chocolate. “Yes, he did,” he said at last, setting down his cup and looking humbly at his wife.
“Did they announce the reorganization … the way he’s going to. …” asked Mrs. Knapp. As if she did not know the answer already!
They both already knew everything that was to be asked and answered, but there seemed no escape from going on.
“Yes, they did,” said Mr. Knapp, trying to chew on a mouthful of steak.
“Who did they put in charge of your office?” asked Mrs. Knapp, adding in an aside, “Helen, don’t hold your fork like that.”
“Harvey Bronson,” said Mr. Knapp, trying to make it sound like any other name.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Knapp.
She made no comment on the news. She made it a point never to criticize their father before the children.
Helen’s eyes went over timidly towards her father, sideways under lowered lids. She wished she dared give him a loving look of reassurance to show him how dearly she loved him and sympathized with him because he had not
