She came about to face him. Her brows were knit. Her eyes were troubled. “That’s just what—what I don’t know,” she admitted. “My dress is all right.—Is there anything wrong with my dress?”
He got up and crossed to her. His underlip was thrust out, as if he were angry. But he answered lightly enough. “Wrong? Not unless mine eyes deceive me.”
Phœbe was turning again more slowly. “I thought maybe my petticoat was showing.”
“Not a sign of it.”
“But, Uncle Bob——!”
“Yes? What?”
“Get right behind me,—straight behind.”
“Here I am.”
“Oh, Uncle Bob, is there a hole in my stocking?”
He looked—now at one slim leg, now at the other. “There certainly is not.”