The candles were still smoking on the cake, the children all trooping
toward the hall.
“Wait, wait!” he cried. “Come back a minute!”
They turned in surprise. The Grown-Ups, very large in the doorway,
looked like gigantic prison guards faced by some sudden unexpected
insurrection. One of them brushed against the bronze gongs hanging at
one side of the door. They jangled softly as if calling them all to
attention.
“Don’t let’s play that game,” he said breathlessly. “It’s too terrible.”
“What game?” asked Mrs. Richmond.
“We made up a game. A game of spies, to----” He realized that he
couldn’t possibly explain with the Parents standing there. He caught
Joyce’s eye. She looked frightened.
“Why, Martin, how silly you are,” chirped Phyllis. “Of course we
weren’t going to play it, not really.”
“He’s not silly!” Joyce shouted fiercely. “_I_ was going to play it.”
“So was I,” Bunny flashed. “Phyllis is telling fibs. We _were_ going to
play it. We were going to spy on Grown-Ups, to find out whether they
have a good time.”
“Bunny, Bunny,” said her mother reprovingly. “Tell Phyllis you’re
sorry. You mustn’t forget she’s a guest.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Phyllis primly. “When I grow up I’m going to
have a lot of children and teach them lovely manners.”
“When _I_ grow up,” Bunny exclaimed, “my children won’t never have to
say Thank you or they’re sorry unless they really mean it.”
“When _I_ grow up,” Ruth said, “I’m going to do without children.
They’re too much of a burden.”
“Perhaps when the time comes,” said one of the guards, “they’ll find
it’s not as easy as it sounds.”
Martin turned hopelessly to the boys. “Ben, don’t _you_ grow up. It
isn’t fun. Ben, I--I _advise_ you not to grow up.”
“Quit your kidding,” Ben retorted. “What’s biting you?”
“_Ben!_” exclaimed an indignant parent. “Where on earth do you pick up
that way of talking. I’m amazed at you.”
Martin saw it was too late. Already something had happened. Just the
invasion of elders into the room had changed them all.
“Mother!” he appealed. “Tell the truth, it’s awfully important, cross
your heart and hope to die. _Do_ you have a good time?”
A chorus of laughter from the adults.
“Why, dear, what an absurd question. Do we look so miserable?”
“They won’t tell us,” he cried bitterly. “They’re all liars!”
There was an appalled silence.
“It’s time to get them home. Parties always upset them. Ben, stop
biting your nails.”
“Joyce, what on earth are you snivelling about? Really, it seems as
though the more you do for them the less they appreciate it.”
The rain had thinned to a drizzle. Martin stood uneasily in the hall
while the others collected umbrellas and rubbers and repeated their
curtsies. The house smelt of raincoats and fresh wallpaper.
“Martin, what _is_ it? Don’t you see I’m busy talking to Mrs. Clyde?
What do you keep twitching my arm for?”
He had only wanted to ask her if they could invite Joyce to stay to
supper. But he couldn’t shout it out before everyone.
“Well, then, if you didn’t want anything special, why are you bothering
me? Go and say good-bye to Joyce. Say it politely, and tell her you
hope she’ll come again. And after that your father wants to speak to
you.”
But Joyce had already gone, and when she looked back, to try to show
him she understood, she did not see him. His father was asking him if
a boy ten years old didn’t know better than to insult his parents like
that.