The sisters embraced heartily. Quincy got Rhoda’s hand.
“You’re getting too old to kiss,” she smiled at him. Previously, perhaps, he had not been old enough?
“I am not,” cried Quincy. It was one of those quick flashes of effrontery that mark the strain of deprivation in timid boys.
He came forward and held Rhoda’s head, vise-like in his hands. Quincy was of full height. His tall, nervous figure bent over the voluptuous lined woman in striking contrast. While she was everywhere firmly composed, his form was uncertain and angular and loose.
“Behave yourself, Quincy!” Rhoda struggled.
The boy laughed feverishly. His hands held her head. But her body was writhing away. He meant to kiss her cheek. But Rhoda flashed back her head and his mouth skimmed her lips. His heart melted with the flame of that instant. And then, she broke away altogether. Quincy stood where the event had happened, arms still out, hands still before him, feeling the floor gratefully beneath his feet.
“Why, you impudent boy!” Rhoda sneered at him; “how dared you?”
“You talk as if a brother hasn’t a right to kiss his sister,” said Adelaide.
Rhoda turned upon her in a white fury: “You—shut up!”
And Quincy felt Adelaide melt into a corner. He was still looking at Rhoda.