“Oh, Clifford, do!”
“None of the chaps at school are engaged. It isn’t done. Being engaged is rot. Pickering isn’t engaged.”
“Yes; but I don’t see why we shouldn’t,” she said, pouting.
“Well, I do, and I sha’n’t be.”
“But mightn’t you later on, when we’re older?” she implored.
“Why, no, I shouldn’t think so. Why, your mother would be very angry. You’re only twelve. You’re not out. You can’t be engaged before you’re out. Your mother would think it awful cheek of me.”
“Well, I won’t say anything more about it now,” she said. “But, Clifford, will you, perhaps, when I am out?”
“Oh, good Lord! What utter bosh. How do I know what I’ll do when you’re out?”
She began to look tearful.
“Oh, well, all right. I’ll see. Perhaps I may. Mind, I don’t promise.”