The clock struck just as he entered and he stopped to count the strokes.  Seven.  The last stroke died away with a quivering sound.  Then with faltering feet he approached his father.

His father was frowning.  He stopped and pondered.  He had seen that frown on his father’s face many times before, and it had always puzzled him.  Sometimes it would come while you watched, and you couldn’t think what made it come.  Or it would go away in the strangest manner, without anything having happened at all.  It was a great mystery.

The frown did not go away this time; and presently Everychild approached his father timidly.  It was rather difficult for him to speak; but he managed to say: 

“Daddy, do you think you could fix it for me?” He brought the torn kite further forward and held it higher.

His father did not look at him at all!

Everychild’s heart pounded loudly.  How could one go on speaking to a person who would not even look?  Yet he persisted.  “Could you?” he repeated.

His father moved a little, but still he did not look at Everychild.  He said rather impatiently:  “Never mind now, son.”

Then his mother spoke.  She had glanced up from her magazine.  “You’ve left the door open, Everychild,” she said.

Everychild put his kite down with care.  He returned to the door.  It was a stubborn door.  He pulled at it once and again.  It closed with a bang.

“Everychild!” exclaimed his mother.  The noise had made her jump a little.

“It always bangs when you close it,” said Everychild.

“It wouldn’t bang if you didn’t open it,” said his mother.

He returned and stood beside his father.

“You know you used to fix things for me,” he said.  He reflected and brightened a little.  “And play with me,” he added.  “Don’t you remember?”

But just then it seemed that his father and mother thought of something to say to each other.  Their manner was quite unpleasant.  They talked without waiting for each other to get through, and Everychild could not understand a thing they were saying.  He withdrew a little and waited.

But when his parents had talked a little while, rather loudly, his father got up and went out.  He put his hat on, pulling it down over his eyes.  And he banged the door.  But it was the outside door this time, which never banged at all if you were careful.

And then his mother got up and went to her own room—­which meant that she mustn’t be disturbed.

Everychild stood for a moment, puzzled; and then he thought of the broken kite in his hands.  He plucked at it slowly.  You would have supposed that he did not care greatly, now, whether the kite got mended or not.  But little by little he became interested in the kite.  He sat down on the floor and began to untangle the tail.

He scarcely knew when the inner door opened and the cook entered the room.