“Have I what?”

“Ever asked a lady to many you?”

“I have.”

The hand which Dorothea had been stroking was dropped.  She sprang to her feet and stood in front of him, her hands clasped in rigid excitement on her breast.

“When”—­her voice curled upward in quivering delight—­“when is she going to do it, Uncle Winthrop?”

“I do not know.  She has not said she would do it at all.”

“Not said—­she would—­marry—­you!” Delight had changed to indignation high and shrill, and Dorothea’s eyes blazed brilliantly.  “Is she a crazy lady?”

“She is not.”

“Then why?”

“She is not quite sure she—­ It is not a thing to talk about, Dorothea.”  He drew her again on his lap and unclasped the clenched fingers.  “We are good friends, you and I, and I have told you what I have told no one else.  So far as I am concerned, it does not matter who knows, but until she decides we will not talk of this again.  You understand, don’t you, Dorothea?”

“I understand she must have very little sense.  I don’t see how you could want to marry a lady who didn’t know right off, the very first minute, that she wanted to marry you.  Do—­do I know her, Uncle Winthrop?”

“You do.”

For a moment there was silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the mantel; and slowly Dorothea turned to her uncle, her big brown eyes troubled and uncertain.  For half a moment she looked at him, then, without warning, threw her arms around his neck and hid her face against his.

“Is—­is—­it Claudia, Uncle Winthrop?” she whispered.  “Is—­it—­my cousin Claudia?”

“It is—­your cousin Claudia.”

The quiver in Laine’s voice was beyond control, and, lifting the child’s face, he kissed it.  “I have asked her to marry me, Dorothea, but not yet has she promised to do so.”

In Dorothea’s cheeks two burning spots of red glowed brilliantly.  Slipping down from her uncle’s lap, she drew a long breath.  “I knew she must be queer about something,” she said, and her fingers interlocked in trembling excitement.  “She was too nice not to be, but I didn’t think she’d be this kind of queer.  The idea of not promising right away!  I know what’s the matter.  It’s her home and her mother, and all the things she is doing in the country that she don’t want to give up.  Why don’t you go down there and make her, Uncle Winthrop?”

“She asks me not to come—­yet.  There is no hotel, and—­”

“Does she write to you?”

Laine smiled in the eager eyes.  “Yes, she writes to me.”

Again there was silence, and presently a queer sound from Dorothea.  “I can’t help it, Uncle Winthrop!  They’re coming!  Won’t it be grand, because she will, I know she will, and I’m so glad I can’t—­can’t help—­” And big, happy tears rolled down Dorothea’s face, which was pressed close to Laine’s as he held her close to his heart.