"Right here," Peter told her, "every night of the year, 'most. Except when I come to see you."
Miggy stood looking at the table and the wooden chair.
"That's funny," she remarked finally, with an air of meditative surprise; "they know you so much better than I do, don't they?"
"Well," Peter said gravely, "they haven't been thought about as much as you have, Miggy—that's one thing."
"Thinking's nothing," said Miggy, merrily; "sometimes you get a tune in your head and you can't get it out."
"Sit down at the table," said Peter, abruptly. "Sit down!" he repeated, when her look questioned him. "I want to see you there."
She obeyed him, laughing a little, and quite in the woman's way of pretending that obedience is a choice. Peter looked at her. It is true that he had been doing nothing else all the while, but now that she sat at the table—his table—he looked more than before.
"Well," he said, "well, well." As a man says when he has a present and has no idea what to say about it.
Peter's photographs were on the wall above the table, and Peter suddenly leaned past Miggy and took down the picture of his mother and put it in her hand, without saying anything. For the first time Miggy met his eyes.
"Your mother," she said, "why, Peter. She looked—oh, Peter, she looked like you!"