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 to-day,” 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 to-day, 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.