over the making of toothsome delights; and on a golden afternoon gave
a tea on the flower-decked verandahs and in the glorious garden, to
which all Appleboro, in its best bib and tucker, came as one. And
there, in the heart and center of it, cool, calm, correct, collected,
hiding whatever mortal qualms he might have felt under a demeanor as
perfect as Hunter's own, apparently at home and at ease, behold the
Butterfly Man!

Everybody seemed to know him. Everybody had something pleasant to say
to him. Folks simply accepted him at sight as one of themselves. And
the Butterfly Man accepted them quite as simply, with no faintest
trace of embarrassment.

If Appleboro had cherished the legend that this was a prodigal well on
his way home, that afternoon settled it for them into a positive fact.
His manner was perfect. It was as if one saw the fine and beautiful
grain of a piece of rare wood come out as the varnish that disfigured
it was removed. Here was no veneer to scratch and crack at a touch,
but the solid, rare thing itself. My mother had been right, as always.
John Flint stepped into his proper place. Appleboro was acknowledging
it officially.

The garden was full of laughter and chatter and perfumes, and women in
pretty clothes, and young girls dainty as flowers, and the smiling
faces of men. But I am no longer of the party age. I stole away to a
favorite haunt of mine at the back of the garden, behind the spireas
and the holly tree, where there is a dilapidated old seat we have been
threatening to remove any time this five years. Here, some time
later, the Butterfly Man himself came stealthily, and seemed
embarrassed to find the place preempted.

"Well," said I, making room for him beside me, "it isn't so bad after
all, is it?"

"No. I'm glad I was let in for it," he admitted frankly, "though I'd
hate to have to come to parties for a living. Still, this afternoon
has nailed down a thought that's been buzzing around loose in my mind
this long time. It's this: people aren't anything but people, after
all. Men and women and kids, the best and the worst of 'em, they're
nothing but people, the same as everybody else. No, I'll never be
scared to meet anybody, after this. _I'm_ people, too!"

"The same as everybody else."

"The same as everybody else," he repeated, soberly. "Not but what
there's lots of difference between folks. And there are things it's
good to know, too ... things that women like Madame ... and Mis