likes that sort of thing. Very."

"He collects obituaries, too," said Hunter, immensely amused. "You
mustn't overlook the obituaries, Mr. Inglesby."

Mr. Inglesby favored the collector of butterflies _and_ obituaries
with another speculative, piglike stare. You could see the thought
behind it: "Trifling sort of fellow! Idiotic! Very." Aloud he merely
mumbled:

"Singular taste. Very. Collecting obituaries, eh?"

"Fascinating things to collect. Very," said the Butterfly Man,
sweetly. "Not to be laughed at. I might add yours to 'em, too, you
know, some of these fine days!"

"Dilly, Dilly, come and be killed!" murmured Hunter. Mr. Inglesby,
however, was visibly ruffled and annoyed. Who was this fellow braying
of obituaries as if he, Inglesby, were on the highroad to oblivion
already, when he was, in reality, still quite a young man? And right
before Miss Eustis! He turned purple.

"My obituary?" he spluttered. "_Mine_? Mine?"

"Sure, if it's worth while," said the Butterfly Man, amiably. Mary
Virginia barely suppressed a smile.

"Madame would like to see you, Miss Eustis," he told her.

Mary Virginia, bowing distantly to the millionaire and his secretary,
walked off with him, I following.

Once free of them, her spirits rose soaringly.

"It's been a lovely afternoon, and I've enjoyed it all--except Mr.
Inglesby. I don't _like_ Mr. Inglesby, Padre. He's amusing enough, I
suppose, at times, but one can't seem to get rid of him--he's a
perfect Old Man of the Sea," she told us, confidentially. "And you
can't imagine how detestably youthful he is, Mr. Flint! He told me
half a dozen times this afternoon that after all, years don't
matter--it is the heart which is young. And he takes cold tubs and is
proud of himself, and plays golf--for exercise!" The scorn of the
lithe and limber young was in her voice.

"What's the use of being a millionaire, if you have a shape like the
rainbarrel?" I quoted pensively.

Later that night, when "the lights were fled, the garlands dead, and
all but me departed," I went over for my usual last half-hour with
John Flint. Very often we have nothing whatever to say, and we are
even wise enough not to say it. We sit silently, he with Kerry's noble
old head against his foot, each busy with his own thoughts and
reflections, but each conscious of the friendly nearness of the other.
You have never had a friend, if you have never known one with whom you
might sit a silent, easy hour. To-ni