Part 12 (2/2)
”'Kiss you'?” says Molly, shrinking away from him, while flus.h.i.+ng 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 Ma.s.sereene; ”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.”
”No,” returns Luttrell, valiantly, refusing by a supreme effort to allow himself to be tempted by a look at her beauty, ”I will not kiss you so. Why should you be made unhappy, and by me? Keep such gifts, Molly, until you can bestow them of your own free will.”
But Molly is determined to be generous.
”See, I will give you this one freely,” she says, with unwonted sweetness, knowing that she is gaining more than she is giving; and thus persuaded, he presses his lips to the warm tender ones so near his own, while for one mad moment he is absurdly happy.
”You really do love me?” asks Molly, presently, as though just awakening to the fact.
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