Dagmar glanced reflectively at the clock and calculated how many minutes more remained to bring him to the point. "Not necessarily," she rejoined with provocative archness. "There are certain people who may kiss each other, and the rest may not." "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." It was a pretty broad hint, but the sands of opportunity were running low, and Miss Dagmar meant business. "As we are?" the philanderer echoed, with a short laugh of discomfiture. "No, it's certainly not right or even possible when we are so far apart." Dagmar fancied she caught the hateful sound of her sister's voice. "That's what I mean," she said, covering her desperation that a touch of demureness. "We might be close enough to----" "Right!" Peckover exclaimed eagerly, making a spring towards her. On this occasion she did not seek to elude his grasp, possibly considering that the time for that was past. She contented herself with keeping her inviting cheek at a tantalizingly safe distance from Peckover's lips till he wearied of the struggle. For that spoilt child of Fortune was not used to opposition about trifles on the part of the fair sex. "This is dry work. What are you afraid of?" he protested impatiently. "You really mustn't. We are not engaged," was the artificially agitated reply. "That doesn't matter," he insisted. "Who'll be any the wiser?" Matrimony, not wisdom, was Miss Dagmar's concern just then. "I couldn't let you," she declared, with a cunning suggestion of duty overriding inclination. "I couldn't--unless----"