CHAPTER XX
DOWN THE SEINE
My daughter Alida and my daughter Dulcima had gone to drive with theUnited States Ambassador and his daughter that morning, leaving me atthe Hotel with instructions as to my behaviour in their absence, andinjunctions not to let myself be run over by any cab, omnibus,automobile, or bicycle whatever.
Considerably impressed by their solicitude, I retired to thesmoking-room, believing myself safe there from any form of vehicularperil. But the young man from Chicago sauntered in and took a seat closebeside me, with benevolent intentions toward relieving my isolation.
I preferred any species of juggernaut to his rough riding over theEnglish language, so I left him murkily enveloped in the fumes of hisown cigar and sauntered out into the street.
The sky was cloudless; the air was purest balm. Through fresh cleanstreets I wandered under the cool shadows of flowering chestnuts, andpresently found myself on the quay near the Pont des Arts, leaning overand looking at the river slipping past between its walls of granite.
In a solemn row below me sat some two dozen fishermen dozing over theirsport. Their long white bamboo poles sagged, their red and whitequill-floats bobbed serenely on the tide. Truly here was a company ofthose fabled Lotus-eaters, steeped in slumber; a dreamy, passionlessband of brothers drowsing in the sunshine.
Looking east along the grey stone quays I could see hundreds andhundreds of others, slumbering over their fishpoles; looking west, thescenery was similar.
"The fishing must be good here," I observed to an aged man, leaning onthe quay-wall beside me.
"_Comme ca_," he said.
I leaned there lazily, waiting to see the first fish caught. I am anangler myself, and understand patience; but when I had waited an hour bymy watch I looked suspiciously at the aged man beside me. He was asleep,so I touched him.
He roused himself without resentment. "Have you," said I, sarcastically,"ever seen better fishing than this, in the Seine?"
"Yes," he said; "I once saw a fish caught."
"And when was that?" I asked.
"That," said the aged man, "was in 1853."
I strolled down to the lower quay, smoking. As I passed the row ofanglers I looked at them closely. They all were asleep.
Just above was anchored one of those floating _lavoirs_ in which thewasherwomen of Paris congregate to beat your linen into rags with flatwooden paddles, and soap the rags snow-white at the cost of a fewpennies.
The soapsuds from the washing floated off among the lines of theslumbering fishermen. Perhaps that was one reason why the fish wereabsent from the scenery. On the other hand, however, I was given tounderstand that a large sewer emptied into the river near the Pont desArts, and that the fishing was best in such choice spots. Stillsomething certainly was wrong somewhere, for either the sewer and thesoapsuds had killed the fish, or they had all migrated up the sewer onan inland and subterranean picnic to meet the elite among the rats ofParis, and spend the balance of the day.
The river was alive with little white saucy steamboats, rushing up anddown the Seine with the speed of torpedo craft. There was a boat-landingwithin a few paces of where I stood, so, when a boat came along andstopped to discharge a few passengers, I stepped aboard, bound foralmost anywhere, and not over-anxious to get there too quickly. Neitherdid I care to learn my own destination, and when the ticket agent innaval uniform came along to inquire where I might be going, I told himto sell me a pink ticket because it looked pretty. As all Frenchmenbelieve that all Americans are a little mad, my request, far fromsurprising the ticket agent, simply confirmed his national theory; andhe gave me my ticket very kindly, with an air of protection such as oneinvoluntarily assumes toward children and invalids.
"You are going to Saint Cloud," he said. "I'll tell you when to get offthe boat."
"Thank you," said I.
"You ought to be going the other way," he added.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because Charenton lies the other way," he replied, politely, and passedon to sell his tickets.
Now I had forgotten much concerning Paris in my twenty years of absence.
There was a pretty girl sitting on the bench beside me, with elbowsresting on the railing behind. I glanced at her. She was smiling.
"Pardon, madame," said I, knowing enough to flatter her, though she had"mademoiselle" written all over her complexion of peaches andcream--"pardon, madame, but may I, a stranger, venture to address youfor a word of information?"
"You may, monsieur," she said, with a smile which showed an edge ofwhite teeth under her scarlet lips.
"Then, if you please, where is Charenton?"
"Up the river," she replied, smiling still.
"And what," said I, "is the principal feature of the town of Charenton?"
"The Lunatic Asylum, monsieur."
I thanked her and looked the other way.
Our boat was now flying past the Louvre. Above in the streets I couldsee cabs and carriages passing, and the heads and shoulders of peoplewalking on the endless stone terraces. Below, along the river bank, ourboat passed between an almost unbroken double line of dozing fishermen.
Now we shot out from the ranks of _lavoirs_ and bathhouses, and dartedon past the Champ de Mars; past the ugly sprawling Eiffel Tower, pastthe twin towers of the Trocadero, and out under the huge stone viaductof the Point du Jour.
Here the banks of the river were green and inviting. Cafes, prettysuburban dance-houses, restaurants, and tiny hotels lined the shores. Iread on the signs such names as "The Angler's Retreat," "At the GreatGudgeon," "The Fisherman's Paradise," and I saw sign-boards advertisingfishing, and boats to let.
"I should think," said I, turning to my pretty neighbor, "that it wouldpay to remove these fisherman's signs to Charenton."
"Why?" she asked.
"Because," said I, "nobody except a Charentonian would ever believe thatany fish inhabit this river."
"Saint Cloud! Saint Cloud!" called out the ticket-agent as the boatswung in to a little wooden floating pier on the left bank of the river.
The ticket-agent carefully assisted me over the bridge to thelanding-dock, and I whispered to him that I was the Duke of Flatbush andwould be glad to receive him any day in Prospect Park.
Then, made merry at my own wit, I strolled off up the steps that led tothe bank above.
There, perched high above the river, I found a most delightful littlerustic restaurant where I at once ordered luncheon served for me on theterrace, in the open air.
The bald waiter sped softly away to deliver my order, and I sipped anAmer-Picon, and bared my head to the warm breeze which swept up theriver from distant meadows deep in clover.
There appeared to be few people on the terrace. One young girl, however,whom I had seen on the boat, I noticed particularly because she seemedto be noticing me. Then, fearing that my stare might be misunderstood, Iturned away and soon forgot her when the bald waiter returned with anomelet, bread and butter, radishes and a flask of white wine.
Such an omelet! such wine! such butter! and the breeze from the westblowing sweet as perfume from a nectarine, and the green trees wavingand whispering, and the blessed yellow sunshine over all----
"Pardon, monsieur."
I turned. It was my pretty little Parisienne of the steamboat, seated atthe next small table, demurely chipping an egg.
"I beg _your_ pardon," said I, hastily, for the leg of my chair waspinning her gown to the ground.
"It is nothing," she said brightly, with a mischievous glance under hereyes.
"My child," said I, "it was very stupid of me, and I am certainly oldenough to know better."
"Doubtless, monsieur; and yet you do not appear to be very, very old."
"I am very aged," said I--"almost forty-five." And I smiled aretrospective smile, watching the bubbles breaking in my wine-glass.
Memory began to work, deftly, among the debris of past years. I sawmyself a student of eighteen, gayly promenading Paris with my tutor
,living a monotonous colourless life in a city of which I knew nothingand saw nothing save through the windows of my English pension or in thefeatureless streets of the American quarter, under escort of my tutorand my asthmatic aunt, Miss Janet Van Twiller.
That year spent in Paris, to "acquire the language" in a house wherenothing but English was spoken, had still a vague, tender charm for me,because in that year I was young. I grew older when I shook the tutor,side-stepped my aunt, and moved across the river.
Once, only once, had the placid serenity of that year been broken. Itwas one day--a day like this in spring--when, for some reason, even nowutterly unknown to me, I deliberately walked out of the house alone indefiance of my tutor and my aunt, and wandered all day long throughunknown squares and parks and streets intoxicated with my own freedom.And I remember, that day--which was the twin of this--sitting on theterrace of a tiny cafe in the Latin Quarter, I drifted into idleconversation with a demure little maid who was sipping a red syrup outof a tall thin glass.
Twenty-seven years ago! And here I was again, in the scented springsunshine, with the same west wind whispering of youth and freedom, andmy heart not a day older.
"My child," said I to the little maid, "twenty-seven years ago you drankpink strawberry syrup in a tall iced glass."
"I do not understand you, monsieur," she faltered.
"You cannot, mademoiselle. I am drinking to the memory of my deadyouth."
And I touched my lips to the glass.
"I wonder," she said, under her breath, "what I am to do with the restof the day?"
"I could have told you," said I--"twenty-seven years ago."
"Perhaps you could tell me better now?" she said, innocently.
I looked out into the east where the gold dome of the Tomb roseglimmering through a pale-blue haze. "Under that dome lies an Emperor inhis crypt of porphyry," said I. "Deeper than his dust, bedded in itsstiff shroud of gold, lies my dead youth, sleeping forever in the heartof this fair young world of spring."
I touched my glass idly, then lifted it.
"Yet," said I, "the pale sunshine of winter lies not unkindly on snowand ice, sometimes. I drink to your youth and beauty, my child."
"Is that all?" she asked, wonder-eyed.
I thought a moment: "No, not all. Williams isn't the only autocraticinterpreter of Fate, Chance, and Destiny."
"Williams!" she repeated, perplexed.
"You don't know him. He writes stories for a living. But he'll neverwrite the story I might very easily tell you in the sunshine here."
After a pause she said: "Are you going to?"
"I think I will," I said. And my eyes fixed smiling upon the sunnyhorizon, I began:
* * * * *
Now, part of this story is to be vague as a mirrored face at dusk; andpart is to be as precise as the reflection of green trees in the glassof the stream; and all is to be as capricious as the flight of thatwonderful butterfly of the South which is called Ajax by the reverent,and The White Devil by the profane. Incidentally, it is the story ofJones and the Dryad.
The profession of Jones was derided by the world at large. He collectedbutterflies; and it may be imagined what the American public thought ofhim when they did not think he was demented. But a large,over-nourished and blase millionaire, wearied of collecting pigeon-bloodrubies, first editions and Rembrandts, through sheer _ennui_ one daycommissioned Jones to gather for him the most magnificent and completecollection of American butterflies that could possibly be secured--notonly single perfect specimens of the two sexes in each species, butseries on series of every kind, showing local varieties, seasonalvariations in size and colour, strange examples of albinism andpolymorphic phenomena--in fact, this large, benevolent and intellectualcapitalist wanted something which nobody else had, so he selected Jonesand damned the expense. Nobody else had Jones: that pleased him; Joneswas to secure specimens that nobody else had: and that would be doublygratifying. Therefore he provided Jones with a five-year contract, anagreeable salary, turned him loose on a suspicious nation, and went backto hunt up safe investments for an income the size of which had begun toannoy him.
* * * * *
"This part of the story is clear enough, is it not, my child?"
"Are _you_ Jones?"
"Don't ask questions," I said, seriously.
"The few delirious capers cut by Jones subsequent to the signing of thecontract consisted of a debauch at the Astor Library, a mad eveningwith seven aged gentlemen at the Entomological Society, and the purchaseof a ticket to Florida. This last spasm was his undoing; he went forbutterflies, and the first thing he did was to trip over the maliciouslyextended foot of Fate and fall plump into the open arms of Destiny. Andin a week he was playing golf. This part is sufficiently vague, I hope.Is it?"
She said it was; so I continued:
* * * * *
The Dryad, with her sleeves rolled up above her pretty elbows, waspreparing to assault a golf ball; Jones regarded the proceedings withthat inscrutable expression which, no doubt, is bestowed upon certaincreatures as a weapon for self-protection.
"Don't talk to me while I'm driving," said the Dryad.
"No," said Jones.
"Don't even say 'no'!" insisted the Dryad.
A sharp thwack shattered the silence; the golf ball sailed away towardthe fifth green, landing in a gully. "Oh, bother!" exclaimed the Dryad,petulantly, as the small black caddie pattered forward, irons rattlingin his quiver. "Now, Mr. Jones, it is up to you"--doubtless aclassically mythological form of admonition common to Dryads but nowobsolete.
The Dryad, receiving no reply, looked around and beheld Jones, netpoised, advancing on tiptoe across the green.
"What is it--a snake?" inquired the Dryad in an unsteady voice.
"It is The White Devil!" whispered Jones.
The Dryad's skirts were short enough as it was, but she hastily pickedthem up. She had a right to. "Does it bite?" she whispered, lookingcarefully around in the grass. But all she could see was a strangelybeautiful butterfly settled on a blue wild blossom which swayed gentlyin the wind on the edge of the jungle. So she dropped her skirts. Shehad a right to.
Now, within a few moments of the hour when Jones had first laid eyes onher, and she on Jones, he had confided to her his family history, hisambitions, his ethical convictions, and his theories concerning the fourknown forms of the exquisite Ajax butterfly of Florida. She had beenyoung enough to listen without yawning--which places her age somewhereclose to eighteen. Besides, she had remembered almost everything thatJones had said, which confirms a diagnosis of her disease. There couldbe no doubt about it; the Dryad was afflicted with extreme Youth, forshe now recognized the butterfly from the eulogy of Jones, and herinnocent heart began a steady tattoo upon her ribs as Jones, on tiptoe,crept nearer and nearer, net outstretched.
The moment was solemn; breathless, hatless, bare-armed, the Dryadadvanced, skirts spread as though to shoo chickens.
"Don't," whispered Jones.
But the damage had been accomplished; Ajax jerked his pearl and ashenbanded wings, shot with the fiery crimson bar, flashed into the air, andwas gone like the last glimmer of a fading sun-spot.
"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" cried the Dryad, clasping her highly ornamentalhands; "what on earth will you think of my stupidity?"
"Nothing," said Jones, resolutely, swallowing hard and gazing at thetangled jungle.
"It was too stupid," insisted the Dryad; and, as the silence of Jonesassented, she added, "but it is not very nice of you to say so."
"Why, I didn't," cried Jones.
"You did," said the Dryad, tears of vexation in her blue eyes. "And topay for your discourtesy you shall make me a silk net and I shall giveup golf and spend my entire time in hunting for White Devils, to makeamends."
The suggested penance appeared to attract Jones.
"Give up golf--which I am perfectly mad about," repeated the Dryad,"ju
st because you were horrid when I tried to help you."
"That will be delightful," said Jones, naively. "We will hunt Ajaxtogether--all day, every day----"
"Oh, I shall catch--something--the first time I try," observed theDryad, airily. She teed up a practice ball, hit it a vicious whack,followed its flight with narrowing blue eyes, and, turning placidly uponJones, smiled a dangerous smile.
"If I don't catch an Ajax before you do I'll forfeit anything youplease," she said.
"I'll take it," said Jones.
"But," cried the Dryad, "what do you offer against it?"
"Whatever I ask from you," he said, deliberately.
"You are somewhat vague, Mr. Jones."
"I won't be when I win."
"Tell me what you want--if you win!"
"What? With this caddie hanging around and listening?" The Dryad,wide-eyed and flushed, regarded him in amazement.
Jones picked up a pinch of wet sand from the box, moulded it with greatcare into a tiny truncated cone, set it on the tee, set his ball on topof it, whipped the air persuasively with his driver once or twice, and,settling himself into the attitude popularly attributed to the Colossusof Rhodes, hit the ball for the longest, cleanest drive he had everperpetrated.
"Dryad," he said, politely, "it is now up to you."
* * * * *
Of all the exquisite creatures that float through the winter sunshine ofthe semi-tropics this is the most exquisite and spirituelle. Long,slender, swallow-tailed wings, tinted with pearl and primrose, crossedwith ashy stripes and double-barred with glowing crimson--this is theshy, forest-haunting creature that the Dryad sought to snare, and soughtin vain.
Sometimes, standing on the long, white shell roads, where myriads ofglittering dragon-flies sailed, far away a pale flash would catch thesun for an instant; and "Ready! Look out!" would cry the Dryad. Vanity!Swifter than a swallow the Ajax passed, a pearly blurr against the glareof the white road; swish! swish! the silken nets swung in vain.
"Oh, bother," sighed the Dryad.
Again, in the dim corridors of the forest, where tall palms clusteredand green live oaks spread transparent shadows across palmetto thickets,far in some sunlit glade a tiny wing-flash would bring the Dryad'sforest cry: "Quick! Oh, quick!" But the woodland ghost was gone.
"Oh, bother, bother!" sighed the Dryad. "There are flowers--thesparkleberry is in blossom--there is bloom on the China tree, but thisphantom never stops! Can nothing stop it?"
Day after day, guarding the long, white road, the Dryad saw the phantompass--always flying north; day after day in the dim forest, thehurrying, pale-winged, tireless creatures fled away, darting alwaysalong some fixed yet invisible aerial path. Nothing lured them, neitherthe perfumed clusters of the China-berry, nor the white forest flowers;nothing checked them, neither the woven curtain of creepers across theforest barrier, nor the jungle walled with palms.
To the net of the Dryad and of Jones had fallen half a thousand jewelledvictims; the exquisite bronzed Berenice, the velvet and yellowPalamedes, the great orange-winged creatures brilliant as lightedlanterns. But in the gemmed symmetry of the casket the opalescent heartwas missing; and the Dryad, uncomforted, haunted the woodlands, roamingin defiance of the turquoise-tinted lizards and the possible serpentwhose mouth is lined with snow-white membranes--prowling in contempt ofthat coiled horror that lies waiting, S shaped, a mass of matted greyand velvet diamond pattern from which two lidless eyes glitterunwinking.
"How on earth did anybody ever catch an Ajax?" inquired the Dryad atthe close of one fruitless, bootless day's pursuit.
"I suppose," said Jones, "that every year or so the Ajax alights." Thatwas irony.
"On what?" insisted the Dryad.
"Oh, on--something," said Jones, vaguely. "Butterflies are, no doubt,like the human species; flowers tempt some butterflies, mud-puddlesattract others. One or the other will attract our Ajax some day."
That night Jones, with book open upon his knees, sat in the lamplight ofthe great veranda and read tales of Ajax to the Dryad; how that, in thetropics, Ajax assumes four forms, masquerading as Floridensis in winterand as Telamonides in summer, and how he wears the exquisite livery ofMarcellus, too, and even assumes, according to a gentleman named Walsh,a fourth form. Beautiful pictures of Ajax illumined the page where werealso engraved the signs of Mars and of Venus. The Dryad looked at these;Jones looked at her; the rest of the hotel looked at them. Jones readon.
Sleepy-eyed the Dryad listened; outside in the burnished moonlight thewhippoorwill's spirit call challenged the star-set silence; and far awayin the blue night she heard the deep breathing of the sea. Presently theDryad slept in her rocking-chair, curved wrist propping her head; Joneswas chagrined. He need not have been, for the Dryad was dreaming of him.
* * * * *
There came a day late in April when, knee deep in palmetto scrub, theDryad and Jones stood leaning upon their nets and scanning thewilderness for the swift-winged forest phantom they had sought so long.Ajax was on the wing; glimpse after glimpse they had of him, a paleshadow in the sun, a misty spot in the shadow, then nothing but miles ofpalmetto scrub and the pink stems of tall pines.
Suddenly an Ajax darted into the sunny glade where they stood, and aragged, faded brother Ajax fluttered up from the ground and, Ajax-like,defied the living lightning.
Wing beating wing they closed in battle, whirling round and round oneanother above the palmetto thicket. The ragged and battered butterflywon, the other darted away with the speed of a panic-stricken jacksnipe,and his shabby opponent quietly settled down on a sun-warmed twig.
Then it was that inspiration seized the Dryad: "Mr. Jones, you trickwild ducks into gunshot range by setting painted wooden ducks afloatclose to the shore where you lie hidden. Catch that ragged Ajax, placehim upon a leaf, and who knows?"
Decoy a butterfly? Decoy the forest phantom drunk with the exhilarationof his own mad flight! It was the invention of a new sport.
Scarcely appearing to move at all, so cautious was his progress, Jonesslowly drew near the basking and battle-tattered creature that had oncebeen Ajax. There was a swift drop of the silken net, a flutter, and allwas over. In the palm of Jones's hand, dead, lay the faded and torninsect with scarce a vestige of former beauty on the motionless wings.
Doubting, yet stirred to hope, he placed the dead butterfly on apalmetto frond, wings expanded to catch the sun; and then, standingwithin easy net-stroke, the excited Dryad and Jones strained their eyesto catch the first far glimpse of Ajax in the wilderness.
What was that distant flash of light? A dragon-fly sailing? There it isagain! And there again! Nearer, nearer, following the same invisibleaerial path.
"Quick!" whispered the Dryad. A magnificent Ajax flashed across theglade, turned an acute angle in mid-air, and in an instant hung hoveringover the lifeless insect on the palm leaf.
Swish-h! A wild fluttering in the net, a soft cry of excitement from theDryad, and there, dead, in the palm of the hand of Jones, lay the firstperfect specimen, exquisite, flawless, beautiful beyond words.
Before the Dryad could place the lovely creature in safety another Ajaxdarted into the glade, sheered straight for the decoy, and the nextinstant was fluttering, a netted captive.
Then the excitement grew; again and again Ajax appeared in the vicinity;and the tension only increased as the forest phantom, unseeing orunheeding the decoy, darted on in a mad ecstasy of flight.
No hunter, crouched in the reeds, could find keener excitement watchingnear his decoys than the Dryad found that April day, motionless, almostbreathless, scanning the forest depths for the misty-winged phantom ofthe tropic wilderness. One in six turned to the decoy; there were long,silent intervals of waiting and of strained expectancy; there were falsealarms as a distant drifting dragon-fly glimmered in the sun; but one byone the swift-winged victims dashed at the decoy and were taken in theirstrength and pride and all their unsullied beauty. And whe
n the sport ofthat April morning was over, and when Denis, the Ethiopian, turned thehorses' heads homeward, Ajax Floridensis, Ajax Marcellus and AjaxTelamonides were no longer mysteries to the Dryad and to Jones.
But there was a deeper mystery to solve before returning to the vastcaravansary across the river; and while they hesitated to attack it, I,mademoiselle, having met and defeated Ajax in fair and open trial ofcunning and of wit, think fit to throw a ray of modern light upon thisarchaic tale.
It is true that Ajax, of the family of Papilio, rivals the wind inflight, and seldom, in spring and summer, deigns to alight. Yet I haveseen Ajax Telamonides alight in the middle of the roadway, and, nettinghim, have found him fresh from the chrysalis, and therefore weak andinexperienced. Ajax Floridensis I have taken with a net as he feasted onthe bunches of white sparkleberry on the edge of the jungle.
Rarely have I seen Ajax seduced by the wild phlox blossoms, but I havesometimes caught him sipping there.
As for the decoy, I have used it and taken with it scores and scores ofAjax butterflies which otherwise I could not have hoped to capture. Thisis not all; the great Tiger Swallowtail of the orange groves can bedecoyed by a dead comrade of either sex; so, too, can the royal,velvet-robed Palamedes butterfly; and when the imperial Turnus sailshigh among the magnolias' topmost branches, a pebble cast into the airnear him will sometimes bring him fluttering down, following the stoneas it falls to the ground. These three butterflies, however, aregenerally easily decoyed, and all love flowers. Yet, in experimentingwith decoys, I have never seen an Ajax decoy to any dead butterflyexcept an Ajax; and the dead butterfly may be of either sex, and asbattered as you please.
It is supposed by some that butterflies can distinguish colour and format no greater distance than five feet; and experiments in decoyingappear to bear out this theory. Butterflies decoy to their own species,even to faded and imperfect ones.
Of half a dozen specimens set out on leaves and twigs, among which werePapilio Palamedes, Cresphontes, and Turnus, Ajax decoyed only to animperfect and faded Ajax, and finally, when among that brilliant arrayof specimens a single upper wing of a dead Ajax was placed on a broadleaf, Ajax came to it, ignoring the other perfect specimens.
Yet Ajax will fight in single combat with any live butterfly, and sowill Palamedes, Turnus, and Cresphontes.
If a female Luna moth is placed in a cage of mosquito netting and hungout of the window at night she is almost certain to attract all the maleLuna moths in the neighbourhood before morning. In this case, as it isin the case of the other moths of the same group, it is the odor thatattracts.
But in the case of a dead Ajax butterfly it appears to be colour evenmore than form; and it can scarcely be odor, because the Ajaxbutterflies of both sexes decoy to a dead and dried butterfly of eithersex. With this abstruse observation, mademoiselle, I, personally, retireinto the jungle to peep out at a passing vehicle driven by an Ethiopianknown as Denis, and containing two young people of sexes diametricallyopposed. And I am pleasantly conscious that I can no longer concealtheir identity from you, mademoiselle.
"No," she said, "I know who they are. Please continue about them."
So I smiled and continued:
"And after all these weeks, during which I have so faithfullyaccompanied you, are you actually going to insist that I lost my bet?"asked the Dryad in a low voice.
"But you didn't, did you?" said the pitiless Jones.
"I let you catch the first Ajax. I might have prevented you; I mighthave even caught it myself!"
"But you didn't, did you?" said the pitiless Jones.
"Because," continued the Dryad, flushing, "I was generous enough tothink only of capturing the butterflies, while all the time it appears_you_ were thinking of something else. How sordid!" she added,scornfully.
"You admit I won the bet?" persisted that meanest of men.
"I admit nothing, Mr. Jones."
"Didn't I win the bet?"
Silence.
"Didn't I----"
"Goodness, yes!" cried the Dryad. "Now what are you going to do aboutit?"
"You said," observed Jones, "that you would forfeit anything I desired.Didn't you?"
The Dryad looked at him, then looked away.
"Didn't you?"
Silence.
"Di----"
"Yes, I did."
"Then I am to ask what I desire?"
No answer.
"So," continued Jones in a low voice, "I do ask it."
Still no answer.
"Will you----"
"Mr. Jones," she said, turning a face toward him on which was writtenutter consternation.
"Will you," continued Jones, "permit me to name the first new butterflythat I capture, after you?"
Her eyes widened.
"Is--is _that_ all you desire?" she faltered. Suddenly her eyes filled.
"Absolutely all," said Jones simply--"to name a new species of butterflyafter my wife----"
However, that was the simplest part of the whole matter; the trouble wasall ahead, waiting for them on the veranda--two hundred pounds ofwealthy trouble sitting in a rocking-chair, tatting, and keeping tabsupon the great clock and upon the trolley cars as they arrived indecorous procession from the golf links.
* * * * *
There was a long, long silence.
"Is--is that all?" inquired my little neighbour.
"Can't you guess the rest?"
But she only sighed, looking down at the lace handkerchief which she hadbeen absently twisting in her lap.
"You know," said I, "what keys unlock the meaning of all stories?"
She nodded.
"The keys of The Past," I said.
She sighed, looking down into her smooth little empty hands:
"I threw them away, long ago," she said. "For me there remains only onemore door. And that unlocks of itself."
And we sat there, thinking, through the still summer afternoon.