“I don’t mean just _doing_ things,” said Martin. “I mean thinking things.” His eager face, clearly lit by two candles in tall silver sticks, was suddenly and charmingly grave. “Able to think what you want to; not to have to--to do things you know are wrong.” For an instant the boy seemed to tremble on the edge of uttering the whole secret infamy of childhood; the most pitiable of earth’s slaveries; perhaps the only one that can never be dissolved. But the others hardly understood; nor did he, himself. He covered his embarrassment by grabbing at a cracker of gilt paper in which Alec was rummaging for the pull. Joyce had slipped from her chair and was peeping through one of the windows. Something in the talk had struck home to her in a queer, troublesome way. Suddenly, she didn’t know why, she wanted to look at the Grown-Ups, to see exactly what they were like. The rest of the party followed her in a common impulse. Joyce’s attitude caused them to tiptoe across the room and peer covertly from behind the long curtains. Without a word of explanation all were aware of their odd feeling of spying on the enemy--an implacable enemy, yet one who is (how plainly we realize it when we see him off guard in the opposing trench, busy at his poor affairs, cooking or washing his socks) so kin to ourselves. With the apprehensive alertness of those whose lives may depend on their nimble observation, they watched the unconscious group at the tea table. “Daddy’s taking three lumps,” said Bunny. She spoke louder than is prudent in an outpost, and was s-s-sh-ed. “Your mother’s got her elbow on the table,” Ruth whispered. “Daddy’s smacking his lips and chomping,” insisted Bunny. “That’s worse than talking with your mouth full.” “How queer they look when they laugh.” “Your mother lifts her head like a hen swallowing.” “Yours has her legs crossed.” “It’s a form of nervousness.” “They do all the things they tell us not to,” said Joyce. “Look, he’s reaching right across the table for another cake.” Martin watched his parents and their friends. What was there in the familiar scene that became strangely perplexing? He could not have put it into words, but there was something in those voices and faces that made him feel frightened, a little lonely. Was that really Mother, by the silver urn with the blue flame flattened under it? He could tell by her expression that she was talking about things that belong to that Other World, the thrillingly exciting world of Parents, whose secrets are so cunningly guarded. That world changes the subject, alters the very tone of its voice, when you approach. He had a wish to run out on the veranda, to reassure himself by the touch of her soft cool arm in the muslin dress. He wanted to touch the teapot, to see if it was hot. If it was, he would know that all this was real. They had gone so far away.--Or were they also only playing a game? “They look as though they were hiding something,” he said.