What Ho!
Cuddy's insufferably sappy visage moves towards your face, and you realize that all is lost. I mean, a bloke can't very well just speak up in such situations and declare "Now see here Cuddy, this kiss you are offering is no more welcome than a smack on the head with a largish trout. Less so, in fact, for the trout won't go about publicly calling me a 'sweety-winkens' afterwards."
Summoning the savoir faire of an aristo bunged into the tumbril, you screw your eyes closed, pucker up and plunge forward to your demise.
Your lips firmly catch Cuddy in the left eye.
"Ow!" Cuddy rubs her peeper. "Petey, what is the matter with you? Try it again, ya galoot," she says giggling softly and putting her arms around your horrified shoulders.
"AHA!" cries the inconvienently appearing Fatty. "I leave you for but a moment, and I find you in the arms of the nearest rakehell! I should have known that you two were conspiring to oust me from the way Postletwaite was having sport of me in there."
"What ho, Fatty" you say, waving at him as best as you can, what with Cuddy's iron embrace and all.
"Oh yeah?" ripostes the infernal Cuddy. "Petey is a real gentleman, one who knows how to treat a girl right."
"Oh yeah?" Fatty isn't always good at the dialectic "Maybe there's some women who know how to treat a man, who care about HIS needs and also know how to make a decent cup of tea, not to mention breakfast pastry!"
"Oh, it's back to your stomach again, huh? Well I wish whoever the girl is good luck, 'cause your food bill would bankrupt Rockerfeller himself!"
"Fine! I'm off!"
"Good riddance, you big lug! Petey and I will be happy together!" she sticks out her tongue.
You clear your throat "Um, Cuddy, actually, I wanted to tell you....."
"Stuff it sweety, we'll tell Daddy about our engagement tomorrow."
You swallow manfully. There's a code of honour about these things, after all. Cuddy may be a wretched, troublemaking shrimp, but she is a lady. And to back down from an engagement is trifling with a lady's affections, and won't do, not for a Postletwaite. Sadly, you realize that you are now truly doomed. But there's nothing to be done, really.
Fighting back bitter tears of remorse, you
Summoning the savoir faire of an aristo bunged into the tumbril, you screw your eyes closed, pucker up and plunge forward to your demise.
Your lips firmly catch Cuddy in the left eye.
"Ow!" Cuddy rubs her peeper. "Petey, what is the matter with you? Try it again, ya galoot," she says giggling softly and putting her arms around your horrified shoulders.
"AHA!" cries the inconvienently appearing Fatty. "I leave you for but a moment, and I find you in the arms of the nearest rakehell! I should have known that you two were conspiring to oust me from the way Postletwaite was having sport of me in there."
"What ho, Fatty" you say, waving at him as best as you can, what with Cuddy's iron embrace and all.
"Oh yeah?" ripostes the infernal Cuddy. "Petey is a real gentleman, one who knows how to treat a girl right."
"Oh yeah?" Fatty isn't always good at the dialectic "Maybe there's some women who know how to treat a man, who care about HIS needs and also know how to make a decent cup of tea, not to mention breakfast pastry!"
"Oh, it's back to your stomach again, huh? Well I wish whoever the girl is good luck, 'cause your food bill would bankrupt Rockerfeller himself!"
"Fine! I'm off!"
"Good riddance, you big lug! Petey and I will be happy together!" she sticks out her tongue.
You clear your throat "Um, Cuddy, actually, I wanted to tell you....."
"Stuff it sweety, we'll tell Daddy about our engagement tomorrow."
You swallow manfully. There's a code of honour about these things, after all. Cuddy may be a wretched, troublemaking shrimp, but she is a lady. And to back down from an engagement is trifling with a lady's affections, and won't do, not for a Postletwaite. Sadly, you realize that you are now truly doomed. But there's nothing to be done, really.
Fighting back bitter tears of remorse, you