The bed was warm and comfortable and he was drifting blissfully into a dreamless sleep when the door opened and William, clad in pyjamas and carrying the “Child’s Encyclopædia of Knowledge,” appeared.
“’Scuse me disturbin’ you,” said William politely, “but it says in this book what you kindly gave me somethin’ about Socrates” (William pronounced it in two syllables ‘So-crates’) “an’ I thought p’raps you wun’t mind explaining to me what they are. I dunno what So-crates are.”
Mr. Bennison was on the whole rather pleased. In all his books he had insisted that if the child came for knowledge at midnight the child’s curiosity must be satisfied then and there, and he was glad of an opportunity of living up to his ideals. He dragged his mind back from the rosy mists of sleep and endeavoured to satisfy William’s thirst for knowledge.
He talked long and earnestly about Socrates, his life and teaching and his place in history. William listened with an expressionless face.
Whenever the other seemed inclined to draw his remarks to a close William would gently interpose a question which would set his eloquence going again at full flow. But Mr. Bennison’s eyes began to droop and his eloquence began to languish. He looked at his watch. It was 12.30.
“I think that’s all, my boy,” he said with quite a passable attempt at bluff, hearty kindness in his voice.
“You haven’t quite ’splained to me——” began William.
“I’ve told you all I know,” said Mr. Bennison irritably.
William, still clasping his book, went quietly from the room.