In the story of that kiss all was told.
Otho knew that St. George Beresford, unlike the generality of rich young men, was a man of honor.
No young girl’s ruin lay at his door.
He might flirt in a careless, non-committal way if invited to it by a pair of bold eyes, but he never trespassed the proprieties.
Maybelle had led him on as far as any, for she was one of the most accomplished coquettes of the day; but his bearded lips had never pressed the bloom from her lips and cheeks. If languishing eyes had dared and tempted him to the feast, he had most successfully resisted the temptation.
So Otho and his sister, knowing Beresford’s honor and Floy’s purity, knew full well the meaning of that kiss.
It was the sacred pledge of their solemn betrothal.
Ay, though they had known each other scarcely twenty-four hours, they had instantly recognized each other as soul-mates; their hearts had leaped together and melted into one beneath the burning sun of Love.
“When Love, like a red rose, burns and blushes,
How sweet is the kiss that warm lips give;