Even Peter joined in the laughter at this literal and characteristic statement of the case.
"It's more than likely," said Honora, wickedly. "He hasn't kissed me for two years."
"Why, Peter," said Uncle Tom, "you act as though it were warm to-night.
It was only seventy when we came in to dinner."
"Take me out to the park," commanded Honora.
"Tom," said Aunt Mary, as she stood on the step and watched them cross the street, "I wish the child would marry him. Not now, of course," she added hastily,—a little frightened by her own admission, "but later. Sometimes I worry over her future. She needs a strong and sensible man. I don't understand Honora. I never did. I always told you so. Sometimes I think she may be capable of doing something foolish like—like Randolph."
Uncle Tom patted his wife on the shoulder.
"Don't borrow trouble, Mary," he said, smiling a little. "The child is only full of spirits. But she has a good heart. It is only human that she should want things that we cannot give her."
"I wish," said Aunt Mary, "that she were not quite so good-looking."
Uncle Tom laughed. "You needn't tell me you're not proud of it," he declared.
"And I have given her," she continued, "a taste for dress."