Peter shifted, and thought quickly. "You look like a snowbird, one of the kind with a black topknot," he complimented her. "What do you think of me?" And he turned so that she could see where Simon had mended his rusty clothes.
The sparkle died out of Mona's eyes, and in the moment when his back was toward her Peter did not see the look of pity and tenderness that took its place, and with it a shadow of something else, as if he had hurt her.
"I put on this dress for you. That's what I think of you, Peter."
"I got better clothes," he explained, "but we came away so fast we didn't have time to bring them."
"I'm glad you didn't. I like you the way you are. Do you like me, Peter—really?"
"A lot."
"How much?"
Peter turned over various terms of measurement in his mind. "Next to my father," he said.
"Then why did you run away from me when I was in the kitchen with Adette Clamart?" she asked.
Peter flushed. "I dunno. Guess I didn't like to be laughed at. And the baby—he didn't know who I was."