He talked easily and in a way that put her at her ease. She learned that he and his sister, Louise, had stopped off in Cherryvale for a few days; they were on their way back to their home in Keokuk, Iowa, from a trip to California. Had Miss Merriam ever been in California? No; she'd never been in California. Missy hated to make the admission; but Mr. Briggs seemed the kind of youth not to hold it against a pretty girl to give him a chance to exploit his travels. She was a flattering listener. And when, after California had been disposed of, he made a wide sweep to “the East,” where, it developed, he attended college--had Miss Merriam ever been back East? No; she'd never been back East. And then, with a big-eyed and appreciatively murmuring auditor, he dilated on the supreme qualities of that foreign spot, on the exotic delights of football and regattas and trips down to New York for the “shows.” Yes, he was “interesting”! Listening, Missy forgot even Mr. Ridgeley Holman Dobson. Here was one who had travelled far, who had seen the world, who had drunk deep of life, and who, furthermore, was near to her own age. And, other things being equal, nothing can call as youth calls youth. She wasn't conscious, at the time, that her idol was in danger of being replaced, that she was approaching something akin to faithlessness; but something came about soon which brought her a vague disturbance. Missy, who had all but forgotten that she was here for a serious purpose, suddenly explained she had to get her “copy” into the office by ten o'clock; for the paper went to press next morning. “I must go now and see some of the ladies,” she said reluctantly. “Well, of course, if you'd rather talk to the ladies--” responded Mr. Briggs, banteringly. “Oh, it's not that!” She felt a sense of satisfaction, in her own importance as she went on to explain: “I want to ask details and figures and so forth for my report in the paper--I'm society editor of the Beacon, you know.” “Society editor!--you? For Pete's sake!” At first Missy took his tone to denote surprised admiration, and her little thrill of pride intensified. But he went on: “What on earth are you wasting time on things like that for?” “Wasting time--?” she repeated. Her voice wavered a little. “I'd never have suspected you of being a highbrow,” Mr. Briggs continued. Missy felt a surge akin to indignation--he didn't seem to appreciate her importance, after all. But resentment swiftly gave way to a kind of alarm: why didn't he appreciate it? “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: