“That orchid-collector was only thirty-six—­twenty years younger than myself—­when he died.  And he had been married twice and divorced once; he had had malarial fever four times, and once he broke his thigh.  He killed a Malay once, and once he was wounded by a poisoned dart And in the end he was killed by jungle-leeches.  It must have all been very troublesome, but then it must have been very interesting, you know—­except, perhaps, the leeches.”

“I am sure it was not good for him,” said the lady, with conviction.

“Perhaps not.”  And then Wedderburn looked at his watch.  “Twenty-three minutes past eight I am going up by the quarter to twelve train, so that there is plenty of time.  I think I shall wear my alpaca jacket—­it is quite warm enough—­and my grey felt hat and brown shoes.  I suppose—­”

He glanced out of the window at the serene sky and sunlit garden, and then nervously at his cousin’s face.

“I think you had better take an umbrella if you are going to London,” she said in a voice that admitted of no denial.  “There’s all between here and the station coming back.”

When he returned he was in a state of mild excitement.  He had made a purchase.  It was rare that he could make up his mind quickly enough to buy, but this time he had done so.

“There are Vandas,” he said, “and a Dendrobe and some Palaeonophis.”  He surveyed his purchases lovingly as he consumed his soup.  They were laid out on the spotless tablecloth before him, and he was telling his cousin all about them as he slowly meandered through his dinner.  It was his custom to live all his visits to London over again in the evening for her and his own entertainment.

“I knew something would happen to-day.  And I have bought all these.  Some of them—­some of them—­I feel sure, do you know, that some of them will be remarkable.  I don’t know how it is, but I feel just as sure as if someone had told me that some of these will turn out remarkable.

“That one”—­he pointed to a shrivelled rhizome—­“was not identified.  It may be a Palaeonophis—­or it may not.  It may be a new species, or even a new genus.  And it was the last that poor Batten ever collected.”

“I don’t like the look of it,” said his housekeeper.  “It’s such an ugly shape.”

“To me it scarcely seems to have a shape.”

“I don’t like those things that stick out,” said his housekeeper.

“It shall be put away in a pot to-morrow.”

“It looks,” said the housekeeper, “like a spider shamming dead.”

Wedderburn smiled and surveyed the root with his head on one side.  “It is certainly not a pretty lump of stuff.  But you can never judge of these things from their dry appearance.  It may turn out to be a very beautiful orchid indeed.  How busy I shall be to-morrow!  I must see to-night just exactly what to do with these things, and to-morrow I shall set to work.”