"That's no reason why they shouldn't try," argued Peckover, warming again under the influence of the fetching glance. "That's just where the fun comes in. You ought to kiss your mother and your grandmother or your sister, or your aunt, or your——"
"Or your fiancée," Dagmar supplied quietly yet promptly.
"Naturally," he agreed, "but that doesn't count."
"Doesn't it?" Dagmar enquired in a tone of surprise.
"You see, it's expected of you," he explained. "There's—much more of a catch, the poets tell us, in the unexpected."
Dagmar was beginning to grow desperate. Ethel's next (and nearly due) innings might hold the unexpected for her. "There are some things," she observed demurely, "which are made much more delightful by being looked forward to."
"That's right enough," he assented, catching an inviting gleam from her eyes. "But it's poor fun looking forward to a thing you aren't going to get. You know what I'm looking forward to?" He pointed the question with a leer.
"Oh, Mr. Gage," she protested artlessly, "how can I know?"
"By my teaching you," he answered promptly putting forth an endearing arm, which, however the lady deftly avoided.
"No, no," she declared, as bewitchingly as her limitations allowed. "It is not right, as we are."