Florence was timidly stooping to pick out a place in the white part of Mrs Skewton’s face, when that lady presented her ear, and relieved her of her difficulty.
“Edith, my dear,” said Mrs Skewton, “positively, I—stand a little more in the light, my sweetest Florence, for a moment.”
Florence blushingly complied.
“You don’t remember, dearest Edith,” said her mother, “what you were when you were about the same age as our exceedingly precious Florence, or a few years younger?”
“I have long forgotten, mother.”
“For positively, my dear,” said Mrs Skewton, “I do think that I see a decided resemblance to what you were then, in our extremely fascinating young friend. And it shows,” said Mrs Skewton, in a lower voice, which conveyed her opinion that Florence was in a very unfinished state, “what cultivation will do.”
“It does, indeed,” was Edith’s stern reply.
Her mother eyed her sharply for a moment, and feeling herself on unsafe ground, said, as a diversion:
“My charming Florence, you must come and kiss me once more, if you please, my love.”
Florence complied, of course, and again imprinted her lips on Mrs Skewton’s ear.