She pouted up into his face, and he kissed her, and she kissed him—and very proper, too.
There is a deal too much nonsense talked about kissing; it should be encouraged, for all that bacteriologists say to the contrary. Reliable young people, with properly ordered minds, ought to kiss each other far more frequently than they do. It is a delightful, frank and wholesome pastime—and does any amount of good all round. Of course, if you are a prude and attach an absurd significance to a kiss, there is no more to be said, and it is your own look-out and your own loss. But if you take it as a seal of good fellowship, and expression of the youthfulness that sings in every decent heart, however old, it is right and good and proper. Besides, no one will mind, that way. They will slap you on the back and say you are a jolly good fellow, and she’s a dear, sweet, natural girl, and your wife will kiss your own particular pal’s husband, and she will snuggle none the less close to you on that account, nor will you press his hand with any the less warmth. If we abandoned kissing the people we don’t want to kiss, and only gave our caresses to the ones we do, the world would be an ever so much jollier little globe to live upon.
Ronald was in a very glorified frame of mind when he came down the road, and, seeing him, Mrs. Montmorency rose from her fourth cherry-brandy and debouched from the confectioner’s.
“I believe I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Knight,” she said.
He raised his hat.
“Yes,” he said; “but forgive me if I——”
“I am Mrs. Montmorency. You were kind enough to recommend me to my present guests.”
“Ah, yes! So I did.”
“It was so kind of you, and I wish to say how grateful I am.”
“Oh, not at all—delighted! Good afternoon!” For Ronald was very happy with his thoughts.