"Your book has delighted me. But I'm afraid my collection will not pay
you for your trouble."

"That is for me to decide. My South American specimens are all
seconds. On the other hand, you have netted yours yourself."

And straightway a bond of friendship was riveted between these two men
which still remains bright and untarnished by either absence or
forgetfulness. They bent over the cases, agreed and disagreed, the one
with the sharp gestures, the other with the rise and fall of the voice.
For them nothing else existed; they were truly engrossed.

Breitmann, hiding a smile that was partly a yawn, stole quietly away.
Butterflies did not excite his concern in the least.

M. Ferraud was charmed. He was voluble. Never had he entered a more
homelike place, large enough to be called a chateau, yet as cheerful as
a writer's fire. And the daughter! Her French was the elegant speech
of Tours, her German Hanoverian. Incomparable! And she was not
married? _Helas_! How many luckless fellows walked the world
desolate? And this was M. Fitzgerald the journalist? And M. Breitmann
had also been one? How delighted he was to be here! All this flowed
on with perfect naturalness; there wasn't a false note anywhere. At
dinner he diffused a warmth and geniality which were infectious. Laura
was pleased and amused; and she adored her father for these impulses
which brought to the board, unexpectedly, such men as M. Ferraud.

M. Ferraud did not smoke, but he dissipated to the extent of drinking
three small cups of coffee after dinner.