"When we get married, I mean," said Peter, smiling at Uncle Tom. "Let's see!" and he began counting on his fingers, which were long but very strong—so strong that Honora could never loosen even one of them when they gripped her. "One—two—three—eight Christmases before you are twenty-one. We'll have enough things to set us up in housekeeping. Or perhaps you'd rather get married when you are eighteen?"
"I've always told you I wasn't going to marry you, Peter," said Honora, with decision.
"Why by not?" He always asked that question.
Honora sighed.
"I'll make a good husband," said Peter; "I'll promise. Ugly men are always good husbands."
"I didn't say you were ugly," declared the ever considerate Honora.
"Only my nose is too big," he quoted; "and I am too long one way and not wide enough."
"You have a certain air of distinction in spite of it," said Honora.
Uncle Tom's newspaper began to shake, and he read more industriously than ever.
"You've been reading—novels!" said Peter, in a terrible judicial voice.