He sat down and hid it in his hands.
"Poor Rickets," said Poppy softly.

She drew his hands from his face by a finger at a time.
"Oh, Ricky-ticky, you are such a rum little fellow.

I suppose that's why I like you.

But for the life of me I can't think why I kissed you; unless it was to say Good-night." A kiss more or less was nothing to Poppy.

And that one, she felt, had been valedictory.