“Reggie, do you really love me?”
“My word, darling,” was his reply. “I fell in love with you that first night.”
“But perhaps that was because I—I looked so nice as Marie Claire,” I suggested tremulously. I wanted to be, oh, so sure of Reggie.
“You little goose,” he laughed. “It was because you were you. Give me that kiss now. It’s been a long time coming.”
I had known him three months, but not till that night had we had an opportunity for “that kiss,” and it was sweet, and I the very happiest girl in the world.
“Now we must hurry home,” said Reggie, “as I want to speak to your father, as that’s the proper thing to do, you know.”
“Let’s not tell papa yet,” I said. “I hate the proper thing, Reggie. Why do you always want to be ‘proper.’”
Reggie looked at me, surprised.
“Why, dear girl, it’s the proper thing to be—er—proper, don’t you know.”
There was something so stolidly English about Reggie and his reply. It made me laugh, and I slipped my hand through his arm and we went happily down the street. Just for fun—I always liked to shock Reggie, he took everything so seriously—I said: