Each day she came to the task of regenerating Mr. Skippy Bedelle resolved to conduct the proceedings on the grounds of the strictest formality, and each evening she admitted to herself the failure. Yet could she honestly blame herself? She gave him her female sewing-society pin to wear not as a personal token but solely as a daily reminder of the promises he had made to himself. She gave him a tie, a colored handkerchief and the sweater she had just finished for another destination. But each was given as a reward and marked a triumphant progress in his fight to acquire a final mastery over himself. When, however, Skippy brought up the question of a photograph, a crisis was reached.
"I have never never given my picture to any man," she said firmly, and the absence of sibilants made it doubly impressive. "And I never never will. Bethideth, you know I would have to tell my mother."
They were sitting in the summer house at that romantic hour when the first day stars arrive with the mosquitoes. It was always at such moments that the craving was strongest. She had begun by holding his wrist in a strong encircling clasp but the sight of his twitching contorted fingers had been too much for her sensibilities and her hand had slipped into a more intimate clasp.
"After all he's only a boy," she had said to herself.
"Jennie! how can you—don't you—do you realize all I'm doing—just for you?" said Skippy, whose voice at such moments was not under control.
"No, no, you ought to do it for yourself, becauth it ith the right thing to do, becauth it will make you feel stwonger and finer."
"Nope, it's you or nothing."
"Jack, you muthn't thay thuch thingth. I muthn't let you!"
"It is the first time I've ever cared what became of me," said Skippy lugubriously. "You don't know what that pin means to me."
"But—"