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 grown-up 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 to-morrow. 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.