Another night there was a theatrical performance given by three actors of a play that would certainly never see the London footlights, and once again Dennis sat between his father and Blanche Frampton. The surface of the first act scintillated with cynical witty nonsense, light as foam, and the boy bubbled with laughter. But presently his laughter was not so frequent. Something began to shew through the surface, and a soft perpendicular wrinkle engraved itself between Dennis’s eyebrows, and he puzzled out what seemed so clear and vastly entertaining to the rest of the audience.... Yes, soon he thought he had got it, and his brow cleared, but he didn’t laugh: it just did not happen to amuse him. Colin’s attention had been about equally divided between the stage and the boy. The play was to his mind: it drew with deft distinctness the passion that exists only as a pastime and is a foe rather than a friend of love. The author had expended inimitable wit in its delineation, but before the act was over Colin was recognizing rather than appreciating the corrupt and subtle handling, and his conscious attention was more engaged with the effect it had on Dennis than with the entertainment he himself derived from it. During these last few days he had grown very proud of Dennis. There were his extraordinarily good looks to begin with; and he enjoyed himself enormously, but never boisterously. Everyone tried to spoil him, but no one succeeded: he was ever so friendly and well at ease, and without a trace of self-consciousness. His manners were excellent: there was no impression that he was behaving himself, he was perfectly natural with a winning boyish simplicity. Withal he was not grown-up and green-housed for his years, he was on the contrary extremely young. Colin put his arm round him as the act closed with a frank emergence of polished indecency. “Well, old boy, enjoying it?” he asked. Dennis made one of those confiding boyish movements, fitting his shoulder close under his father’s arm. “I liked the beginning,” he said. “But--but they’re rather playing the ass, aren’t they?” Clearly he wasn’t enjoying it. Colin had distinctly hoped he would: that was why he had let him come. It was disappointing, but it was no use boring the boy with these intriguing animals: the last thing he wanted to do was to bore him. “Go away then,” he said, “if you don’t care about it. I thought it would amuse you.” “I expect I’m awfully thick,” said Dennis. “You are, my dear: you’re thick and fat with that enormous dinner you ate. Did you like your champagne?” “Rather. I should think I did. May I have some to-morrow?” “You must ask your mother.” Dennis laughed. “I’d much sooner ask you,” he said. “You’re a wine-bibber. You’ll get gout and delirium tremens, and your mother will say it’s my fault.... Well, what about this next act? Are you going to stop or not?” “I think I won’t,” said Dennis. “And will you come and say good night?” “No: you’ll be asleep.”