st
advantage. "Do you think she will?" she said merrily. "Then I'll stop a
minute, and if she scolds me I'll put the blame on you!"

Briggs played with his silver tassels and, leaning gracefully against a
plum-tree, surveyed her with a critical eye.

"I was not able," he observed, "to see much of you in town. Our people
were always a' visitin' each other, and yet our meetings were, as the
poet says, 'few and far between.'"

Britta nodded indifferently, and perceiving a particularly ripe
gooseberry on one of the bushes close to her, gathered it quickly and
popped it between her rosy lips. Seeing another equally ripe, she
offered it to Briggs, who accepted it and ate it slowly, though he had a
misgiving that by so doing he was seriously compromising his dignity. He
resumed his conversation.

"Since I've been down 'ere, I've 'ad more opportunity to observe you. I
'ope you will allow me to say I think very highly of you." He waved his
hand with the elegance of a Sir Charles Grandison. "Very 'ighly indeed!
Your youth is most becoming to you! If you only 'ad a little more
_chick_, there'd be nothing left to desire!"

"A little more--_what_?" asked Britta, opening her blue eyes very wide
in puzzled amusement.

"_Chick_!" replied Briggs, with persistent persuasiveness. "_Chick_,
Miss Britta, is a French word much used by the aristocracy. Coming from
Norway, an 'avin' perhaps a very limited experience, you mayn't 'ave
'erd it--but eddicated people 'ere find it very convenient and
expressive. _Chick_ means style,--_the_ thing, _the_ go, _the_ fashion.
For example, everything your lady wears is _chick_!"

"Really!" said Britta, with a wandering and innocent air. "How funny! It
doesn't sound like French, at all, Mr. Briggs,--it's more like English."

"Perhaps the Paris accent isn't familiar to you yet," remarked Briggs
majestically. "Your stay in the gay metropolis was probably short. Now,
I 'ave been there many times--ah, Paris, Paris!" he paused in a sort of
ecstacy, then, with a side leer, continued--"You'd 'ardly believe 'ow
wicked I am in Paris, Miss Britta! I am, indeed! It is something in the
hair of the Bollyvards, I suppose! And the caffy life excites my
nerves."

"Then you shouldn't go there," said Britta gravely, though her eyes
twinkled with repressed fun. "It can't be good for you. And, oh! I'm so
sorry, Mr. Briggs, to think that _you_ are ever wicked!" And she
laughed.

"It's not for long," explained Brig