She was holding on to Uncle Cliff's coat lapels now, and looking up into his face with the childish trust and confidence she had shown since babyhood, and the man's arm went round her as of old, protectingly.
"You see, it's this way, Uncle Cliff. There's that dinner for the Lambs and the We Are Sevens to-morrow night. Every single one of the Lambs ordered a new gown to wear. I didn't want them to—but they would do it—and—I'm afraid it's going to make the We Are Sevens sort of uncomfortable. So I was thinking, Uncle Cliff—I was wishing that—we—you and I, maybe—could have a little shopping expedition to-morrow morning and—"
She stopped short, not knowing how to go on without putting herself in the wrong light.
"You understand—don't you, Uncle Cliff? It isn't that I'd be ashamed of the girls; you know that. Their clothes are all right—only I know how girls feel not to be dressed quite like others. It makes them awkward and ill at ease, and—"
Mr. Ashe bent over and imprinted a kiss on the brown head, and for a moment his eyes were suspiciously bright.
"I understand perfectly, Honey," he said.
"But just how could we do it, Uncle Cliff—get them some pretty things without making them think—that—that their things weren't right,—good enough, you know? It's an awfully delicate matter."
"SHE WAS HOLDING ON TO UNCLE CLIFF'S
COAT LAPELS."