eyelids quivered, and her eyes beneath them flickered into consciousness.
“Leslie!—oh!—Let me go!” she exclaimed, pushing him away. He loosed her, and rose, looking at her reproachfully. She shook her dress, and went quickly to the mirror to arrange her hair.
“You are mean!” she exclaimed, looking very flushed, vexed, and dishevelled.
He laughed indulgently, saying, “You shouldn’t go to sleep then and look so pretty. Who could help?”
“It is not nice!” she said, frowning with irritation.
“We are not ‘nice’—are we? I thought we were proud of our unconventionality. Why shouldn’t I kiss you?”
“Because it is a question of me, not of you alone.”
“Dear me, you are in a way!”
“Mother is coming.”
“Is she? You had better tell her.”
Mother was very fond of Leslie.
“Well, sir,” she said, “why are you frowning?”
He broke into a laugh.
“Lettie is scolding me for kissing her when she was playing ‘Sleeping Beauty.’ ”
“The conceit of the boy, to play Prince!” said my mother.
“Oh, but it appears I was sadly out of character,” he said ruefully.
Lettie laughed and forgave him.
“Well,” he said, looking at her, and smiling, “I came to ask you to go out.”
“It is a lovely afternoon,” said mother.
