Rudolph took the apron from her, and the needle-case, found a needle of the size he wanted in half the time she had spent in searching for one, and took up her hem where she had left off, working with fine, even stitches which called forth her unwilling admiration.
“Why,” she cried, in great surprise, “you do it beautifully! It’s better than mine!”
“Of course it is,” remarked Rudolph calmly. “Whatever the superior sex does bears, of course, the mark of superiority. The only thing that women can do really well is to receive prettily the attentions of the sex, it is useless for them to try to emulate. You used to do it very well once. I am hoping you haven’t lost the knack.”
“You haven’t lost your old knack of conceit, I see.”
“Oh, no. I have just the same opinion of myself and just the same opinion of you as when you used to send me wading into the pools between the rocks to get little crabs for you, and into the hedges for bird’s eggs, one from each nest, don’t you remember? And when you used to make me so proud by saying I found them quicker than anybody else. And then—do you remember what you used to do then?”
“Break them on the way home, I suppose,” said she, trying to look as if she had forgotten.
“Come, don’t you really remember any better than that?”
He had finished his needleful of thread, and handed her back the apron. So that he was at leisure to watch her face as she folded the big piece of holland, and collected the odds and ends of her work-bag. And it was quite clear to him that her memory was as true as his.
“Don’t you remember that you always gave me a kiss when I found a robin’s nest?”
“No, indeed, I don’t.”