The morning after the entertainment at Hall's Opera House Gareth came down to breakfast in a state of high excitement. He, too, had passed a sleepless night. He found his father hidden behind the spread-out sheet of the Morning Star. His mother was drinking her coffee.
Good morning, mother, he said, as he bent over her chair to kiss her.
Good morning, Gareth dear.
Good morning, father.
Morning, Henry Johns grunted rather than greeted; nor did he remove the paper which masked his face.
Gareth began to excavate an orange with a spoon.
What awful stuff they gave that wonderful woman last night, mother.
Mrs. Johns was a little uncertain how to take this remark. She tried, conscientiously, simply because she loved him, to mould her taste on Gareth's, but she sometimes faltered in her attempts to understand this taste. Further, she did not want this taste to drift too far abroad, to cease entirely to discover interest in such things as it was possible to admire in Maple Valley.
