"Then," with a solemnity that was as overwhelming as his joy, he
returned, bowing his head as if in church, "_il a une sacrée chance_. He
is--the luckiest boy in the world."

Brigit had forgotten what boredom meant. This spontaneous, warm-hearted
person with--oh, horror,--a white satin tie, and a low, turned-down
collar, filled her with the gentlest and most affectionate amusement.
And as he was to be her father-in-law, why not enjoy him? "It is kind
of you to be so pleased," she said, "it is very interesting, our meeting
like this----"

"Interesting! It is--romance, my dear, romance, of the most unusual. And
you are so beautiful that I cannot look away from you. He told me you
were beautiful--yes--but I had pictured to myself a pink and white miss
with a head as big as a pumpkin--and, just Heaven--a 'drawing-room
voice.' Tell me, oh, tell me, _fille adorée_, that you do not sing!"

His anxiety was perfectly sincere, and she hastened to reassure him.
"Indeed, I do not."

"Nor play--not even 'simple little things,' and 'coon-songs'?"

"Nothing."

"God be praised!" he returned with a sort of whimsical reverence, in
French. "Then you are perfect."

"Indeed I am not. Oh, I _really_ am not!" Before she knew what he was
about to do, he had kissed her forehead, and then, as the train stopped,