I believe—at least, a month ago I might have believed—with the rest of the girls at the office, that that would be his only conception of kissing a girl. I can’t believe that now—not of a brother of Theo’s and Blanche’s—not of a son of Mrs. Waters’s! His father, Blanche said, was so devoted to her ... their boy would have inherited some sort of idea of the real thing! Besides, a young man who’s already surprised me by being able to sing like that, and to be keen on dancing, and to win swimming competitions, and to look, sometimes, quite human! Oh, no!
It was meant for being decent.
He’d scarcely touched me—except just on the hair.
Then I felt furious again.
My hair—my pet vanity—the prettiest thing about me! Once Sydney Vandeleur begged me for a piece of it to keep—that piece with the ripple—as if I’d cut it! If I had, it wouldn’t have got kissed....
Hateful, clumsy, blundering, or something young man! He needn’t have kissed me at all! He could have got out of it—in spite of his detestable old uncle.
Couldn’t he have seemed to think that I was too shy to let him in public, and allowed me to slip away? Or couldn’t he have followed me into the hall and shut the door and pretended?
Or couldn’t he have hatched up some joke on the spur of the moment and announced cheerfully—
“Oh, we don’t say our good nights in here, Uncle; outside in the veranda is where we say good night”—or something like that?
Easily.