Mr. Gorboduc was finally in command of his mind again. ``Tell me -- what do you do at the park?'' he asked. This was delivered in a forthright way, without coyness and over pretended interest -- an admirable way with children. Only, unfortunately, he could not remove from his voice a nagging insinuation of the direct command. This nettled the children into the revelation of exact truth, a sacrifice of their secret superiority over grown people, but a victory in the wide fields of perpetration and illegitimate accomplishment.

``We bump,'' one said; and the other went on to development of the idea. ``We grind, too,'' he said.

My mother was beside herself with curiosity. ``Say that again,'' she pleaded. She laughed a little and tossed the dregs rakishly around in her glass. ``You what?'' She could see that Mr. Gorboduc was intrigued; the hostess in her took over. She was rollickingly happy. ``You what?''

My uncle looked at Mr. Gorboduc. He read Henry James and used to pretend profundity through eye-beamings at people.

Mr. Gorboduc looked down. He would not look up. He was very funny about the whole thing.