"Do you know, mamma, I really did think—what do you think I thought?"
"What, darling?"
"I thought Mr. Fenwick was going to kiss me!" In fact, Fenwick had only just remembered in time that family privileges must stand over till after the revelation.
"Should you have minded if he had?"
"Not a bit! Why should anybody mind Mr. Fenwick kissing them? You wouldn't yourself—you know you wouldn't! Come now, mother!"
"I shouldn't distress myself, poppet!" But words are mere wind; the manner of them is everything, and the foreground of her mother's manner suggests a background to Sally. She has smelt a rat, and suddenly fixes her eyes on a tell-tale countenance fraught with mysterious reserves.
"Mother, you are going to marry Mr. Fenwick!" No change of type could do justice to the emphasis with which Sally goes straight to the point. Italics throughout would be weak. Her mother smiles as she fondles her daughter's excited face.
"I am, darling. So you may kiss him yourself when he comes to-morrow evening."
And Tishy's passion for the shop-boy had to stand over. But, as the Major had said, the mother and daughter talked till three in the morning—well, past two, anyhow!