“Father,” said William, “why’s it called Leap Year?”
“How many times am I to tell you,” said his father, “to shut the door when you come into a room? There’s an icy blast piercing down my neck now. Do you want to murder me?”
“No, father,” said William kindly. He shut the door.
“Father, why’s it called Leap Year?”
“Ask your mother,” said his father, without looking up from his paper.
“She mightn’t know.”
“Well, ask someone else then. Ask anyone in heaven or earth. But don’t ask me anything! And shut the door when you go out.”
William, though as a rule slow to take a hint, went out of the room and shut the door.
“He doesn’t know,” he remarked to the hat-rack in the hall.
He found his mother in the dining-room. She was engaged in her usual occupation of darning socks.