So it fell out very well that Admiral Killigrew was fond of butterflies.  Still, he should have been equally glad to know that the sailor’s hobby inclined toward the exploits of pirates.  M. Ferraud was a modest man.  That his exquisite brochure on lepidopterous insects was in nearly all the public libraries of the world only gratified, but added nothing to his vanity.

As it oftentimes happens to a man whose mind is occupied with other things, the admiral, who received M. Ferraud in the library, saw nothing in the name to kindle his recollection.  He bade the savant to be seated while he read the letter of introduction which had been written by the secretary of the navy.

“MY DEAR KILLIGREW: 

“This will introduce to you Monsieur Ferraud, of the butterfly fame.  He has learned of the success of your efforts in the West Indies and South America and is eager to see your collection.  Do what you can for him.  I know you will, for you certainly must have his book.  I myself do not know a butterfly from a June-bug, but it will be a pleasure to bring you two together.”

Breitmann arranged his papers neatly and waited to be dismissed.  He had seen M. Ferraud at Swan’s, but had formed no opinion regarding him; in fact, the growth of his interest had stopped at indifference.  On his part, the new arrival never so much as gave the secretary a second glance—­the first was sufficient.  And while the admiral read on, M. Ferraud examined the broken skin on his palms.

“Mr. Ferraud!  Well, well; this is a great honor, I’m sure.  It was very kind of them to send you here.  Where is your luggage?”

“I am stopping at Swan’s Hotel.”

“We shall have your things up this very night.”

“Oh!” said Ferraud, in protest; though this was the very thing he desired.

“Not a word!” The admiral summoned the butler, who was the general factotem at The Pines, and gave a dozen orders.

“Ah, you Americans!” laughed M. Ferraud, pyramiding his ringers.  “You leave us breathless.”

“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.