“Don't you like highbrows?” she asked, trying to smile.
“Oh, I suppose they're all right in their place,” said Mr. Briggs lightly. “But I never dreamed you were a highbrow.”
It was impossible not to gather that this poised young man of the world esteemed her more highly in his first conception of her. Impelled by the eternal feminine instinct to catch at possibly flattering personalities, Missy asked:
“What did you think I was?” “Well,” replied Mr. Briggs, smiling, “I thought you were a mighty pretty girl—the prettiest I've seen in this town.” (Missy couldn't hold down a fluttering thrill, even though she felt a premonition that certain lofty ideals were about to be assailed.)
“The kind of girl who likes to dance and play tennis and be a good sport, and all that.”
“But can't a—” Missy blushed; she'd almost said, “a pretty girl.” “Can't that kind of girl be—intellectual, too?”
“The saints forbid!” ejaculated Mr. Briggs with fervour.
“But don't you think that everyone ought to try—to enlarge one's field of vision?”
At that Mr. Briggs threw back his head and laughed a laugh of unrestrained delight.
“Oh, it's too funny!” he chortled. “That line of talk coming from a girl who looks like you do!”