"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. Don't you remember I asked you please to
like her, and you didn't seem to think you would. But you do, don't
you? I won't tell anybody. Don't you like her, Uncle Winthrop?"

"I like her very much, Dorothea." Into Laine's clear-cut face the
color crept to his temples, "She is very different from any one
I've--"

"I knew you would." Dorothea's hands came together excitedly. "I
knew it the minute I saw her, for she isn't a bit frilly, and you
don't like frills any more than I do, and she doesn't, either. She's
sees through people like they were glass, and she tells us the
grandest, shiveringest, funniest stories you ever heard. I bet she's
telling Channing one this minute. She loves children. I'm so glad