“Kiss Fweddie!” he yelled. “Kiss Fweddie!”

“What does this mean?” said the girl, turning on me.

“You’d better give it him,” I said. “He’ll go on till you do, you know.”

She gave the kid the toffee and he subsided. Freddie, poor ass, still stood there gaping, without a word.

“What does it mean?” said the girl again. Her face was pink, and her eyes were sparkling in the sort of way, don’t you know, that makes a fellow feel as if he hadn’t any bones in him, if you know what I mean. Yes, Bertram felt filleted. Did you ever tread on your partner’s dress at a dance⁠—I’m speaking now of the days when women wore dresses long enough to be trodden on⁠—and hear it rip and see her smile at you like an angel and say, “ Please don’t apologise. It’s nothing,” and then suddenly meet her clear blue eyes and feel as if you had stepped on the teeth of a rake and had the handle jump up and hit you in the face? Well, that’s how Freddie’s Elizabeth looked.