The meal progressed in a constrained silence. Bonnie May concerned herself with her napkin; she admired the design on the china; she appeared to appraise the dishes with the care of an epicure. And at last, unfortunately, she spoke. “Don’t you think, Mr. Baron”--to the master of the house--“that it is a pretty custom to converse while at table?” Mr. Baron coughed. He was keenly aware that something had gone wrong; he was shrewd enough to surmise that Bonnie May had offended. But he was in the position of the passenger below decks who senses an abnormal atmosphere but who is unadvised as to the nature of the storm. “I’m afraid I’m not a very reliable hand at small talk,” he said guardedly. “I think my idea is that you ought to talk when you have something to say.” “Very good!” agreed Bonnie May, nodding brightly. She patted her lips daintily with the corner of her napkin. “Only it seems like chickens eating when you don’t talk. The noises make you nervous. I should think anything would get by, even if you talked about the weather. Otherwise it seems just like machinery at work. Rather messy machinery, too.” Baron seized an oar. “Perhaps when people are thoughtful, or possibly troubled, it is a mark of good taste not to try to draw them into a conversation.” He said this airily, as if it could not possibly apply to the present occasion. “A very good idea!” admitted Bonnie May, quite obviously playing the part of one who makes of conversation a fine art. “But isn’t it also true that people who are troubled ought to hide it, for the sake of others, and not be a sort of--oh, a wet blanket?” The elder Baron’s eyes twinkled in a small, hidden way, and Flora tried to smile. There was something quite hopefully audacious in the child’s behavior. But Mrs. Baron stiffened and stared. “Good gracious!” she exclaimed. After which she stirred her coffee with so much vigor that a little of it ran over into the saucer, and even the spotless table-cloth was menaced. Baron undertook a somewhat sterner strategy. He felt that he really must not permit the guest to add to her offenses against his mother. “It might be sensible not to talk too much until a closer acquaintance is formed,” he suggested with something of finality in his tone. But Bonnie May was not to be checked. “A very good thought, too,” she admitted, “but you can’t get better acquainted without exchanging ideas--and of course talking is the only way.” Baron leaned back in his chair with a movement resembling a collapse. Hadn’t Thornburg said something about a white elephant? “Wouldn’t it be fine if everybody wore a badge, or something, so that you would know just how they wanted to be taken?” A meticulous enthusiasm was becoming apparent. Mrs. Baron was sitting very erect--a sophisticated, scornful audience, as she seemed to Bonnie May. “Absurd!” was Baron’s comment.