He was not to be cheated out of that fresh sensation of pleasure which comes to the male, young or old, who tries to cook in camp, to fry, to boil, to season, or to serve things edible. Webster pulled out of his pocket a crumpled piece of brown paper and smoothed it out on the table cloth. It showed butcher stains. Webster's mother protested. "My son! Take a napkin! Take this clean napkin for your lunch!" "I like this paper." The idea of being in the forest and unrolling his lunch from a napkin: what would Wilson have thought? Elinor, being "nice," always rolled her lunch in a napkin. "But you will be hungry: let me get you some preserves!" "Not anything sweet." Elinor always had preserves. He rolled his lunch roughly and thrust it, butcher-stains and all, into his pocket. His mother was exasperated and distressed. "My son, your lunch will come loose in your pocket: I'll get you a string." "I don't want a string." Elinor tied everything. Girls tied; boys buttoned. The difference between men and women was strings. "But you'll get the grease on you, Webster! It will run down your legs!" "Very well, then, I'll have greasy legs. Why not?" She followed him out to the porch. Her character lacked capacity of initiative. She waited for him to be old enough to take some initiative; then she would stand by him. "Don't go too far," she said tenderly, "and you ought to have some of your friends to go with you, some of the boys from school." "They can't go today. Nobody can go today. Anybody would be in the way today." He said this to himself. She watched him from the porch and called: "Don't stay too late." Webster walked quickly to the main corner of the block--Jenny's corner. On this first morning of being through with school and of feeling more like a man free to do as he pleased, Jenny for that reason became more important--he must see her before starting. Heretofore the pleasure of being with Jenny had definitely depended upon what Jenny might do; this morning the idea was beginning to be Jenny herself. She was in her trumpet-vine arbour, the roof of which was already sun-dried. The shaded sides were still dew-wet. She bounded across to him, very exquisite in her light blue frock with broad, fresh white ribbons in her light-brown hair: healthy, docile, joyous, with innocent blue eyes and the complexion of apple blossoms. "Where are you going?" she asked in a voice which implied that the day would be as pleasant, no matter where he went: nevertheless she had no thought of appearing indifferent to him. He told her. "What are you going into the woods for?" she inquired, with little dancing movements of her feet on the yard grass in irrepressible health and joy and with no especial interest in his reply. He told her. "Could _you_ go?" He very well knew she could not and merely yielded to an impulse to express himself: he was offering to ruin the day for her.