Looking intentionally into another person's eyes is an act unknown to childhood; and Penrod's discovery that it could be done was sensational.

He had never thought of looking into the eyes of Marjorie Jones.
Despite all anguish, contumely, tar, and Maurice Levy, he still secretly thought of Marjorie, with pathetic constancy, as his "beau"-- though that is not how he would have spelled it.

Marjorie was beautiful; her curls were long and the colour of amber; her nose was straight and her freckles were honest; she was much prettier than this accomplished visitor.

But beauty is not all.
"I do!" breathed Fanchon, softly.
She seemed to him a fairy creature from some rosier world than this.

So humble is the human heart, it glorifies and makes glamorous almost any poor thing that says to it: "I like you!" Penrod was enslaved.