"For being buttoned, I mean."
"My maid buttons them every morning."
"Tell me how on earth she gets at your foot?"
"No, thanks. I'll button them myself."
"Oh no, you won't. How do the shoe clerks manage it?"
She set her foot on the rung of a chair, and he went at his task with all awkwardness. Her feet were small, yet the shoes were as tight as could be, and she winced as the buttons ground or bit. But she choked back the little cries of pain that rose to her lips.
"Get away," she said; "you're killing me."
But he would not surrender the privilege. He took her foot on his knee and wrought with all care. The hairpin was soon a twisted wreck, and he must have another, and another.
When the lowest buttons were done she checked him. "That's enough! I'd rather my shoes fell off than my hair. And that reminds me: where is my cap?"
"In my pocket next my heart."