"How dare you?" she said. "You have no business!—What if I was?—What if I wasn't?" All the scream in her eyes fell down her throat into a whisper. "Suppose—Suppose—I—WASN'T?" she whispered.
"Then indeed I CAN give you advice," said our Uncle Peter.
The Lady reached out a hand to the book-case to make herself more steady.
"What—what is it?" she said.
Our Uncle Peter looked funnier and funnier. It wasn't like Christmas that he looked. Nor Fourth of July. Nor even like when we've got the mumps or the measles. It was like Easter Sunday that he looked! There was no twinkle in it. Nor any smoke. Nor even paper dolls. But just SHININGNESS! His voice was all SHININGNESS too!—If it hadn't been you never could have heard it 'cause he made his words so little.
"It's almost a year now," he said, "since our eyes first met.—You've tried your best to hide from me—but you couldn't do it.—Fate had other ideas in mind.—A chance encounter on the street,—that day on the ferry boat,—your funny little dog-advertisement in the paper?"
Quite suddenly our Uncle Peter straightened up like a soldier and spoke right out loud again.
"About your little boy," he said, "my advice about your little boy?—It being indeed so well-nigh impossible, Madam, for a woman to bring up a little boy very successfully unless—she did love his Father,—my advice to you is that without the slightest unnecessary delay you proceed to get him a Father whom you COULD love!"
Whereupon, as people always say in books, our Uncle Peter turned upon his heel and started for the door.
The Lady swooned into her chair.