“Well, I felt kind of cheap after I’d done it. I guess I’ve got an awful lot to learn yet, Emily. I’m going to buy a book on etiquette and learn it off by heart. No more evenings like this for me. But it was better at the last. Jim Hardy took me off to the den and we played checkers and I licked him dizzy. Nothing wrong with my checker etiquette, I tell you. And Mrs. Hardy said my speech at the debate was the best she had ever heard for a boy of my age, and she wanted to know what I meant to go in for. She’s a great little dame and has the social end of things down fine. That is one reason I want you to marry me when the time comes, Emily—I’ve got to have a wife with brains.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Perry,” said Emily, haughtily.
“’Tisn’t nonsense,” said Perry, stubbornly. “And it’s time we settled something. You needn’t turn up your nose at me because you’re a Murray. I'll be worth marrying some day—even for a Murray. Come, put me out of my misery.”
Emily rose disdainfully. She had her dreams, as all girls have, the rose-red one of love among them, but Perry Miller had no share in those dreams.
“I’m not a Murray—and I’m going upstairs. Goodnight.”
“Wait half a second,” said Perry, with a grin. “When the clock strikes eleven I’m going to kiss you.”
Emily did not for a moment believe that Perry had the slightest notion of doing anything of the kind—which was foolish of her, for Perry had a habit of always doing what he said he was going to do. But, then, he had never been sentimental. She ignored his remark, but lingered a moment to ask another question about the Hardy dinner. Perry did not answer the question: the clock began to strike eleven as she asked it—he flung his legs over the window-sill and stepped into the room. Emily realised too late that he meant what he said. She had only time to duck her head and Perry’s hearty, energetic smack—
