“Your mother’s got her elbow on the table,” Ruth whispered.
“Daddy’s smacking his lips and chomping,” insisted Bunny.
“That’s worse than talking with your mouth full.”
“How queer they look when they laugh.”
“Your mother lifts her head like a hen swallowing.”
“Yours has her legs crossed.”
“It’s a form of nervousness.”
“They do all the things they tell us not to,” said Joyce.
“Look, he’s reaching right across the table for another cake.”
Martin watched his parents and their friends. What was there in the familiar scene that became strangely perplexing? He could not have put it into words, but there was something in those voices and faces that made him feel frightened, a little lonely. Was that really Mother, by the silver urn with the blue flame flattened under it? He could tell by her expression that she was talking about things that belong to that Other World, the thrillingly exciting world of Parents, whose secrets are so cunningly guarded. That world changes the subject, alters the very tone of its voice, when you approach. He had a wish to run out on the veranda, to reassure himself by the touch of her soft cool arm in the muslin dress. He wanted to touch the teapot, to see if it was hot. If it was, he would know that all this was real. They had gone so far away.—Or were they also only playing a game?