“Yes, I know them well.  There may be time here for some brief flirtations.  I used to see them in Maryland, and once when Aunt Margaret took me on visits to some old Virginia homes.  These pleasant girls take to it with no more conscience than birds in the spring.  I used to see it in Maryland.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, “but it means very little;—­quite harmless—­mere practice, like our fencing bouts.”

“Did you ever kiss a woman, John—­just for practice?” “Why did I say that!” thought Leila.  “Come, sir, confess!”

“Yes,” he said, not liking it and far from any conception of the little mob of motives which betrayed to her a state of mind he had not the daring to guess.  “Did I?  That requires courage.  Have I—­ever kissed a woman?  Yes, often—­”

“Oh, I did not ask who.”

“Aunt Ann—­and a girl once—­”

“Indeed!”

“Yes—­Leila Grey, aged fifteen—­and got my ears boxed.  This confession being at an end, I want absolution.”  The air was cleared.

“How about the first polka as absolution?” said Leila.

“It is unusual, but as penance it may answer.”

“The penance may be mine.  I shall know better after the first round, Mr. Penhallow.”

“You are complimentary, Miss Grey,” he added, with the whimsical display of mirth which was more than a smile and not a laugh, and was singularly attractive.

In place of keeping up the gay game of trifles as shuttle-cocks, Leila stood still upon the edge of the wood, “I don’t think you liked what I asked.”

“What, about kissing?  I did not, but upon my honour I answered you truly.”  He was grave as he replied.

“You did not think it impertinent, Jack?”

“I don’t know what I thought it.”  And then, as if to avoid need to defend or explain contradictory statements, he said, “Put yourself in my place.  Suppose I had dared to ask you if ever a man had kissed you—­”

“Oh, that’s the difference between kissing and being kissed.”

“Then put it my way.”

“John Penhallow, I should dearly like to box your ears.  Once a man did kiss me.  He was tall, handsome, and had the formal courtly manners you have at times.  He was General Winfield Scott.  He kissed my hand.”

“You minx!” cried John, “you are no better than you used to be.  There goes the bugle!” And laughing as he deserted her, he ran down the hill and across the parade ground.

“He is not really handsome,” said the young woman, “but no man ought to have so beautiful a mouth—­I could have made him do it in a minute.  Why did I not?  What’s the matter?  I merely couldn’t.  He hasn’t the remotest idea that if he were to kiss me—­I—­” She reddened at the thought and went with quick steps of “virgin liberty” to take tea with the Commandant.