They were to meet in a bush paddock adjoining the far one belonging
to Misrule, to walk for about an hour, returning by half-past seven,
before it grew dusk.
"I am going to ask you for something that day, Meg," Andrew whispered
just as they were parting. "I wonder if I shall get it."
Meg flushed in her nervous, conscious way, and wondered to herself
for a moment whether he intended to ask for a lock of her hair, a
thing Graham had already obtained from Aldith.
"What?" she said unwillingly.
"A kiss," he whispered.
The next minute the others had joined them, and there was no chance
for the indignant answer that trembled on her lips. She had even
to shake hands, to appear as if nothing had happened, and to part
apparently good friends.
"Half-past six sharp, Marguerite. I will never forgive you if you
don't come," Aldith said, as they parted at her gate.
"I--you---Oh, Aldith, I don't see how I can come," Meg faltered,
the crimson in her cheeks again. "I've never done anything like it
before. I'm sure it's not right."
But the curl, in Aldith's lip made her ashamed of herself.
"You're just twelve, Marguerite;" the young lady said calmly:
"you're not a bit more than twelve.
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