“Of course I have, darling; haven’t I dined?” replied Alfred, renewing the endearment.
Now Fanny’s costume was too careful, her hair too elaborately arranged, to withstand successfully these osculatory onsets.
“Alfred, dear, we may as well understand these little matters at once,” said she.
“What little matters, darling?” inquired Mr. Dinks, with interest. He was unwontedly animated, but, as he explained—he had dined.
“Why, this kissing business.”
“You dear!” cried Alfred, impetuously committing a fresh breach of the peace.
“Stop, Alfred,” said Fanny, imperiously. “I won’t have this. I mean,” said she, in a mollified tone, remembering that she was only engaged, not married—“I mean that you tumble me dreadfully. Now, dear, I’ll make a little rule. You know you don’t want your Fanny to look mussed up, do you, dear?” and she touched his cheek with the tip of one finger. Dinks shook his head negatively. “Well, then, you shall only kiss me when I am in my morning-dress, and one kiss, with hands off, when we say good-night.”
She smiled a little cold, hard, black smile, smoothing her rumpled feathers, and darting glances at herself in the large mirror opposite, as if she considered her terms the most reasonable in the world.
“It seems to me very little,” said Alfred Dinks, discontentedly; “besides, you always look best when you are dressed.”
“Thank you, love,” returned Fanny; “just remember the morning-dress, please, for I shall; and now tell me all about your conversation with your mother.”