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On careful examination, the lamb-chops turned out
satisfactorily--"chippiness" was an epithet that could not justly be
applied to them,--and Mr. Briggs began to eat them leisurely, flavoring
them with a glass or two of fine port out of a decanter which he had
taken the precaution to bring down from the dining-room sideboard.
"I _ham_, late," he then graciously explained--"not that I was detained
in enny way by the people upstairs. The gay Clara went out early, but I
was absorbed in the evenin' papers--Winsleigh forgot to ask me for them.
But he'll see them at his club. He's gone there now on foot-poor
fellah!"
"I suppose _she's_ with the same party?" grinned the fat Flopsie, as she
held a large piece of bacon dipped in vinegar on her fork, preparatory
to swallowing it with a gulp.
Briggs nodded gravely, "The same! Not a fine man at all, you know--no
leg to speak of, and therefore no form. Legs--_good_ legs--are beauty.
Now, Winsleigh's not bad in that particular,--and I dare say Clara can
hold her own,--but I wouldn't bet on little Francis.


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