"Over them, in such matters, I have but feeble control," sighed the good man. "Were it possible I would put a stop to the performance at any cost."
"What's the harm, father?" asked Will, who saw that his mother was certain to lose the argument, and pitied her.
"William," said the parson, turning on his son, "your knowledge of such matters is infinitesimal. The stage is not real, it is but a show of puppets, and by persons of uncertain character."
"But," persisted Will, "what have the morals of actors got to do with the stage and plays?"
"What have the morals of a preacher got to do with his sermons? In the church, and out of it, is not every action watched, every word listened to and repeated? Is he not supposed to be an example?"
"Yes, father, but after all he is only a man."
"An exemplary one."
"Usually," said Will in a way that neither his father nor mother understood. For several minutes they ate in silence.
"I thought," began Mrs. Flint with renewed courage, "that Shakespeare's works were above reproach."
"So they are; there's no finer reading, no clearer understanding of human nature than in the plays of Shakespeare; but the performance of them is simply the making believe by actors that they are what they are not," patiently explained the parson. Will choked over his coffee in an effort to keep from laughing.