"And you,"—tightening his arms round her,—"some time you will love me, my sweet?"
"Yes,—perhaps so,—when it suits me."
"Molly," says Luttrell after a pause, "won't you kiss me?"
As he speaks he stoops, bringing his cheek very close to hers.
"'Kiss you'?" says Molly, shrinking away from him, while flushing and reddening honestly now. "No, I think not. I never in all my life kissed any man but John, and—I don't believe I should like it. No, no; if I cannot be engaged to you without kissing you, I will not be engaged to you at all."
"It shall be as you wish," says Luttrell, very patiently, considering all things.
"You mean it?" Still keeping well away from him, and hesitating about giving the hand he is holding out his to receive.
"Certainly I do."
"And"—anxiously—"you don't mind?"
"Mind?" says he, with wrathful reproach. "Of course I mind. Am I a stick or a stone, do you think? You might as well tell me in so many words of your utter indifference to me as refuse to kiss me."