"Nothing, Pete. I reckon your coming back so sudden and all you been through, and that letter, kind of upset me. D-does she powder her face, Pete?"
"Who? You mean Miss Gray? Why, what would she do that for?"
"Does she wear clothes that—that cost lots of money?"
"Great snakes, Ma! I dunno. I never seen her except in the hospital, dressed jest like all the nurses."
"Is—is she handsome?"
"Say, Ma, you let me hold them blankets. They're gittin' you all sagged down. Why, she ain't what I'd say was handsome, but she sure got pretty eyes and hair—and complexion—and the smoothest little hands—and she's built right neat. She steps easy—like a thoroughbred filly—and she's plumb sensible, jest like you folks."
This latter assurance did not seem to comfort Ma Bailey as much as the implied compliment might intimate.
"And there's only one other woman I ever saw that made me feel right to home and kind o' glad to have her round, like her. And she's got gray eyes and the same kind of hair, and—"
"Sakes alive, Pete Annersley! Another?"
"Uh-huh. And I'm kissin' her good-night—right now." And Pete grabbed the blankets and as much of Ma Bailey as could be included in that large armful, and kissed her heartily.