“Bab,” says she, with real roses in her cheeks, “if you call me that again I’ll punch your—er—I mean—I’ll—er——”
“You mean you’ll what, my delightful little girlie?” says I, gloating on her rage.
“I’ll kiss you,” says she, revealing the red ochre on her lips.
At that I did desist, for I was not sure, judging by her looks, whether she was not hoping that I would take her at her word. And in any case I knew she would be quite the equal of her threat.
“Certainly I am robing and posturing for a conquest,” she resumed. “To-night, I conquer papa.”
“What?” cries I, aghast at her audacity. “You would never dare!”
“Bab,” saye she, “I think you will discover that Miss Prue is as much a Dare as ever was Mr. Anthony. And if he once kissed a heathen, surely she may captivate a saint.”
I thought her impudence was charming, but could not let it pass without remark.
“You call me heathen, Prue. ’Pon my soul, I think the kettle calls the pot!”
“Perhaps that is so,” she replied, “yet you know you are a terrible barbarian. Still, to-night I conquer your papa. Why should I support the pains without the glory? If I endure the indignity of petticoats, let me have their compensations too.”