"Yes, that is what we're all coming to. Except Bunny . . . and - and you. You haven't done it, not quite. .

"Martin, I'm worst of all," she cried. "I'm neither one nor the other."

"No, I think Ben is the worst," he said slowly. "It's too bad; he was such a nice boy. Of course George is pretty awful, but I didn't know him before."

"Quick, go away. Don't try to learn too much. You must go for their sake. If they find out who you are - ".

She had a sick presentiment that they must hurry. And still he lingered, and she could feel Time sloping toward some bottomless plunge.

"Perhaps I don't want to go. There's something I don't quite understand. You all look at each other so queerly: look, and then turn away. And you and George in the garden. What is it? What's happened that hurts you all so?"

How could she answer? How tell him that the world is often too fierce for its poor creatures, overstrains and soils them in their most secret nerves; and that with all their horrors they would not have it otherwise.He had come like the unspoiled essence of living, groping blindly for what it divines to be happy and real and true; he was thwarted and d.a.m.ned by the murderous pettiness of his own scarred brethren. If I had two friends called Food and Hunger, I'd never introduce them to each other. Must she, who was born to love him, be the one to tell him this?

"You must go. Don't you see, it isn't only us. It's you too. You and George. . . . Oh, I tried not to tell you. George is just you grown up."

He looked at her, appalled.

"You're the George that was once. That's why he hates you so.You're George the Fifth, I suppose," she said, forgetting he wouldn't understand.

"I won't be like George!" he exclaimed. "But I shan't go unless you'll come with me. It wouldn't be any fun unless you were there. Help us to get away, and we'll never come again."

She did not tell him that she could never go back; that he must go alone: that they would always be lonely.

"Are you sure?" he asked pitiably. "Have I got to be like that? Like George, I mean?"

"Hurry, hurry," was all she could say.

He was running toward the house.

She tried to follow, but some sluggish seizure was about her limbs. The house, shadowy in deepening mist, loomed over her. She seemed to hear its pa.s.sages patter with racing feet. There was a face at the pantry window. Perhaps there was a face at every window. There always is. She dared not look.

There were racing feet. The three children burst onto the porch above her.

"Time for breakfast!" they called. "And then we'll be ready for the Picnic!"

Now she knew. The whole dumb face of the house had been warning her; George's premonition last night was the same. She tried wildly to wave them back, but her voice was sealed. Frolicking with antic.i.p.ation, Janet and Sylvia and Rose ran to the railing and leaned over to shout to her.

"See if there are any cobwebs! If there are, it's not going to rain."

Time swayed over her like an impending tree, tremulous, almost cut through. It seemed so gingerly poised that perhaps the mere fury of her will could hold it stable for a moment. Where was Martin? Oh, if he found the mouse in time he would get back before this happened and perhaps his memory would be wiped clean. She saw George appear at the door of the porch with tools in his hands, and his face turn ghastly.

"We're going to have ginger ale at the Picnic," Sylvia was calling.

She tried to hold Time still with her mind. She was frantically motioning the children back, crying out and wondering whether her voice made any sound. The bal.u.s.trade was going, she saw the old splintery wood cracking, swaying, sagging. There was a snapping crash of breaking posts. The children's faces, flushed with gaiety, their mouths open, suddenly changed. They leaned forward and still farther forward, holding out their arms to her as though for an embrace. They were beginning to fall. After so many little tears and troubles, how could they know that this was more than one last strange tenderness. And as the railing shattered and they fell, she saw that Martin was at the door of the porch. He had found it.

XXII

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 smelled 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.CHRISTOPHER MORLEY

About the Author.

In a decidedly premature obituary Morley said: "Morley was probably as much puzzled or troubled by himself as some of his readers were by him. He thought of himself (quite often) as essentially a poet, and some of his verse is more important than has been recognized. His best loved private a.s.sociations were with people devoid of conventional culture, such as booksellers, shipmasters, travelling salesmen, headwaiters and occasional professors of English literature."

The sly self-obituarist was born in Haverford, Pa., in 1890. He attended Haverford College and went to New College, Oxford, as a Rhodes Scholar. In 1914 he married Helen Booth Fairchild and has 1 son and 3 daughters. He has done considerable editorial work, notably for Doubleday, Page & Co., the old New York Post, and the Sat.u.r.day Review of Literature. In 1928 he was one of the founders of the Hoboken Theatrical Company which sponsored revivals of old-time melodramas. He has been one of the judges of the Book of the Month Club from its beginning.

Morley's better-known works include Where the Blue Begins (1922), Kitty Foyle (1939), and Thorofare (1942).