You don't know a thing I've been talking about."
Laine raised his head with a start. "Oh yes, I do. You were
saying--saying--"
"I told you so! You didn't even know where you were! You were way
off somewhere." Dorothea's voice was triumphant. "I want to ask you
something, Uncle Winthrop. I won't tell anybody." She settled
herself more comfortably on the stool at his feet, and crossed her
arms on his knees. "Don't you think my Cousin Claudia is nice?"
"Very nice." Laine took out his handkerchief, wiped his glasses, and
held them to the light.
"And don't you think she has a lovely mouth? When she talks I watch
her like I haven't got a bit of sense." Dorothea scanned her uncle's
face critically. "Your eyes are dark; and hers are light, with dark
rims around the seeing part, and she just comes to your shoulder; but
you look so nice together. I hope you feel sorry about the things
you said about her before she came."
"What things?"
"That maybe her face was red and her hair was red and her hands were
red, or if they weren't, maybe they were blue. Aren't you sorry?"
"Very sorry, Dorothea. I was rude and tired and worried that
evening. Let's forget it."
"I never have told her, but I supposed you must have changed your
mind, for you've been here so much lately, and gone to so many places
with her that you don't like to go to, that I thought--"
"Thought what, Dorothea?"
"That maybe--" Dorothea stroked Laine's fingers one by one--"maybe
you liked her a little bit.
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