She was rosy now sitting upright with the admired and admirable legs clasped in her arms and with knees bent seeking what concealment was possible.

“See,” he remarked placidly. “You ruin the dimples when you bend your knees like that. You iron them out very wasteful. I fear they are gone for good. No, by George! There is one back again when I straighten out a leg once more. I believe that, if properly coaxed, I might go so far as to apply a kiss of welcome to that wandering dimple, which I thought gone forever. I am liberal that way.”

“Stanley Cochrane, don’t you dare, kiss my knee!” gasped the girl. “Of all things!”

He smiled up at her flushed face. His breath was warm upon her skin, mere inches away from the dimple which so enticed him. His fingers delighted in the velvet smoothness of the thigh and calf which he had grasped in straightening out, with gentle force, the naked leg nearest him. “What a fussy sister! One can’t even demonstrate one’s warm affection for her,” he said. “Don’t blame me, little dimple. I was about to welcome your return with affection but the iron-souled boss says no. I suggest, Maro, he went on, sitting up and removing his dismaying hands from the lovely limb, “I suggest that your dimples-and all other forbidden spots be courtplastered as a warning to tempted lips. That would include each cheek, both knees, probably your shoulders and loins, maybe your white little stomach, and perhaps even other places.”

“You are being nothing short of horrible!” said the blushing damsel. “I think we had better go back to the house.”

There was genuine amusement in his smile and some touch of incredulity, as well.