"Lor', Mr. Briggs!" she gasped, wiping the moisture from her eyes, "you are a regular one, aren't you! Mussy on us, you ought to put all wot you say in the papers--you'd make your fortin!"
"Maybe, maybe, Flopsie," returned Briggs with due dignity. "I will not deny that there may be wot is called 'sparkle' in my natur. And 'sparkle' is wot is rekwired in polite literatoor. Look at 'Hedmund' and ''Enery!' Sparkle again,--read their magnificent productions, the World and Truth,--all sparkle, every line! It is the secret of success, Flopsie--be a sparkler and you've got everything before you."
Louise Rénaud looked across at him half-defiantly. Her prim, cruel mouth hardened into a tight line.
"To spark-el?" she said--"that is what we call étinceler--éclater. Yes, I comprehend! Miladi is one spark-el! But one must be a very good jewel to spark-el always--yes--yes--not a sham!"
And she nodded a great many times, and ate her salad very fast. Briggs surveyed her with much complacency.
"You are a talented woman, Mamzelle," he said, "very talented! I admire your ways--I really do!"
Mamzelle smiled with a gratified air, and Briggs settled his wig, eyeing her anew with fresh interest.
"Wot a witness you would be in a divorce case!" he continued enthusiastically. "You'd be in your helement!"
"I should--I should indeed!" exclaimed Mamzelle, with sudden excitement,--then as suddenly growing calm, she made a rapid gesture with her hands--"But there will be no divorce. Milord Winsleigh is a fool!"
Briggs appeared doubtful about this, and meditated for a long time over his third glass of port with the profound gravity of a philosopher.
"No, Mamzelle," he said at last, when he rose from the table to return to his duties upstairs--"No! there I must differ from you. I am a close observer. Wotever Winsleigh's faults,--and I do not deny that they are many,--he is a gentleman-that I must admit--and with hevery respect for you, Mamzelle--I can assure you he's no fool!"
And with these words Briggs betook himself to the library to arrange the reading-lamp and put the room in order for his master's return, and as he did so, he paused to look at a fine photograph of Lady Winsleigh that stood on the oak escritoire, opposite her husband's arm-chair.
"No," he muttered to himself. "Wotever he thinks of some goings-on, he ain't blind nor deaf--that's certain. And I'd stake my character and purfessional reputation on it--wotever he is, he's no fool!"