“Do you think,” asked Ursula, “it is wicked to let a man kiss you — real kisses, not flirting?”

“I should think,” said Ethel, “it depends.”

“He kissed me under the ash trees on Cossethay hill — do you think it was wrong?”

“When?”

“On Thursday night when he was seeing me home — but real kisses — real — .

He is an officer in the army.”

“What time was it?” asked the deliberate Ethel.

“I don't know — about half-past nine.”

There was a pause.