A few minutes later, and still wrathful, Joe went in to dinner. He ate
silently, though his father and mother and Bessie kept up a genial flow
of conversation. There she was, he communed savagely with his plate,
crying one minute, and the next all smiles and laughter. Now that was
n't his way. If _he_ had anything sufficiently important to cry about,
rest assured he would n't get over it for days. Girls were hypocrites,
that was all there was to it. They did n't feel one hundredth part of all
that they said when they cried. It stood to reason that they did n't. It
must be that they just carried on because they enjoyed it. It made them
feel good to make other people miserable, especially boys. That was why
they were always interfering.

Thus reflecting sagely, he kept his eyes on his plate and did justice
to the fare; for one cannot scorch from the Cliff House to the Western
Addition via the park without being guilty of a healthy appetite.

Now and then his father directed a glance at him in a certain mildly
anxious way. Joe did not see these glances, but Bessie saw them, every
one. Mr. Bronson was a middle-aged man, well developed and of heavy
build, though not fat. His was a rugged face, square-jawed and
stern-featured, though his eyes were kindly and there were lines about
the mouth that betokened laughter rather than severity. A close
examination was not required to discover the resemblance between him
and Joe. The same broad forehead and strong jaw characterized them both,
and the eyes, taking into consideration the difference of age, were as
like as peas from one pod.

"How are you getting on, Joe?" Mr. Bronson asked finally. Dinner was
over and they were about to leave the table.