"Molly," says Luttrell after a pause, "won't you kiss me?"

As he speaks he stoops, bringing his cheek very close to hers.

"'Kiss you'?" says Molly, shrinking away from him, while flushing and
reddening honestly now. "No, I think not. I never in all my life kissed
any man but John, and--I don't believe I should like it. No, no; if I
cannot be engaged to you without kissing you, I will not be engaged to
you at all."

"It shall be as you wish," says Luttrell, very patiently, considering
all things.

"You mean it?" Still keeping well away from him, and hesitating about
giving the hand he is holding out his to receive.

"Certainly I do."

"And"--anxiously--"you don't _mind_?"

"Mind?" says he, with wrathful reproach. "Of course I mind. Am I a
stick or a stone, do you think? You might as well tell me in so many
words of your utter indifference to me as refuse to kiss me."

"Do all women kiss the men they promise to marry?"

"All women kiss the men they love."

"What, whether they ask them or not?"

"Of course I mean when they are asked."

"Even if at the time they happen to be married to somebody else?"

"I don't know anything about that," says Luttrell, growing ashamed of
himself and his argument beneath the large, horror-stricken eyes of his
companion. "I was merely supposing a case where marriage and love went
hand in hand."

"Don't suppose," says Miss Massereene; "there is nothing so tiresome.
It is like 'fourthly' and 'fifthly' in a sermon: you never know where
it may lead you. Am I to understand that all women want to kiss the man
they love?"

"Certainly they do," stoutly.

"How very odd!" says Molly.

After which there is a most decided pause.

Presently, as though she had been pondering all things, she says:

"Well, there is one thing: I don't mind your having your arms round me
a bit, not in the _least_. That must be something. I would quite
as soon they were there as not."

"I suppose that is a step in the right direction," says Luttrell,
trying not to see the meaning in her words, because too depressed to
accept the comic side of it.

"You are unhappy," says Molly, remorsefully, heaving a quickly
suppressed sigh. "Why? Because I won't be good to you? Well,"--coloring
crimson and leaning her head back against his shoulder with the air of
a martyr, so that her face is upturned,--"you may kiss me once, if you
wish,--but only once, mind,--because I can't bear to see you
miserable."

"