“Let me see how you look, first,” faltered the boy. “Where’s your face?... I want to touch it!”
His little hands reached and found Jinnie’s shoulders. Then slowly the fingers moved upwards, pressing here and there upon the girl’s skin, as they traveled in rhythmic motion over her cheeks.
“Your hair’s awful curly and long,” said he. “What color is it?”
“Color? Well, it’s black with purple running through it, I guess. People say so anyway!”
“Oh, yes, I know what black is. And your eyes’re blue, ain’t they?”
“Yes, blue,” assented Jinnie. “I see ’em when I slick my hair in the kitchen glass ... I don’t think they’re much like yours.”
Bobbie paid no heed to the allusion to himself.
“Your forehead’s smooth, too,” he mused. “Your eyes are big, and the lashes round ’em ’re long. You’re much 104 prettier’n your dog, but then girls ’re always pretty.”
A flush of pleased vanity reddened Jinnie’s skin to the tips of her ears, and she scrambled to her feet. Then she paused, a solemn expression shadowing her eyes.
“Bobbie,” she spoke soberly, “now I found you, you belong to me, don’t you?”