"What are you looking at?" he asked with unceremonious directness.
"Looking at you," said she.
He glanced down at his clothes to see if anything was wrong.
"What's the matter with me?" he inquired.
"I like you," she replied.
"Why?"
"Cos you can stop playing all quick, like this, when you play."
She must have had some vague conception of what she meant. He must have had some vague conception of what he understood. It was the first time it had ever been made apparent to him that any one could like him as well as his mother.
"Aren't you going to play?" he asked.
"I've got a headache," she replied.