KISS me again," said Jock, because it was the thing to say.
"Won't," said Molly.
But she did. That was the trouble with women, Jock reflected drearily during the kiss. If one of them would only just once decline and stick to it, he felt that the whole status of the sex would be considerably elevated and life made much more piquant. . . .
They were seated in a limousine parked outside the Country Club. The owner of the limousine, a lady much too old to be pleasant, was parked inside the Country Club, engrossed in meditations anent the letter she was going to write to the House Committee the next morning on "what goes on at these dances!" She was fortunately unaware of what went on in her automobile; of the pressure of lip to lip under its shadows; of the cigarette ashes that had been tossed upon its velvet carpet; and of the fact that Jock would, upon leaving, filch the single perfect rosebud from the little glass cornucopia and tuck it into his coat lapel. . . .
"You going to miss me this winter, Jock?"
"Of course."
