be surprised, for if ever a mortal man had the effrontery of Satan that man’s George Inglesby!  I must admit he’s improved since Mr. Hunter took him in hand.  He’s not nearly so stout and red-faced, and he hasn’t half the jowl, though Lord knows he’ll have to get rid of a few tons more of his blubber” (Miss Sally Ruth has a free and fetterless tongue) “if he wants to look human.  As I say, what’s the use of being a millionaire if you’ve got a shape like a rainbarrel?  I often tell myself, ’Maybe you haven’t been given such a lot of this world’s goods as some, Sally Ruth Dexter, but you can thank your sweet Redeemer you’ve at least got a Figure!”

The Butterfly Man cast a speculative eye over her generous proportions.

“Yes’m, you certainly have a whole lot to be thankful for,” he agreed, so wholeheartedly that Miss Sally Ruth laughed.

“Get along with you, you impudent fellow!” said she, in high good humor.  “Go and look at that old scamp of an Inglesby making eyes at a girl young enough to be his daughter!  I heard this morning that Mr. Hunter has orders to get him, by hook or crook, an invitation to anything Mary Virginia goes to.  I declare, it’s scandalous!  Come to think of it, though, I never saw any man yet, no matter how old or ugly or outrageous he might be, who didn’t really believe he stood a perfectly good chance to win the affections of the handsomest young woman alive!  If you ask me, I think George Inglesby had better join the church and get himself ready to meet his God, instead of gallivanting around girls.  If he feels he has to gallivant, why don’t he pick out somebody nearer his own age?”

“Why should you make him choose mutton when he wants lamb?” asked the Butterfly Man, unexpectedly.

“Because he’s an old bellwether, that’s why!” snapped Miss Sally Ruth, scandalized.  “I wonder at Annabelle Eustis allowing him to come near Mary Virginia, millionaire or no millionaire.  I bet you James Eustis will have something to say, if Mary Virginia herself doesn’t!” And she sailed off again, leaving us, as the saying is, with a bug in the ear.

“Now what in the name of heaven,” I wondered, “can Miss Sally Ruth mean?  Mary Virginia ...  Inglesby. ...  The thing’s sacrilegious.”

The Butterfly Man rose abruptly.  “Suppose we stroll about a bit?” he suggested.

“I thought,” said my mother, when we approached her, “that you had disobeyed orders, and run away!”

“We were afraid to,” said John Flint.  “We knew you’d make us go to bed without supper.”

“Did you know,” said my mother, hurriedly, for Clelie was making signs to her, “that George Inglesby is here?  The invitation was merely perfunctory, just sent along with Mr. Hunter’s.  I never dreamed the man would accept it.  You can’t imagine how astonished I was when he presented himself!”

A few moments later, the Butterfly Man said in a low voice:  “Look yonder!” And turning, I saw Hunter.  He was for the moment alone, and stood with his head bent slightly forward, his bright cold glance intent upon the two persons approaching—­Mary Virginia and George Inglesby.  His white teeth showed in a smile.  I remembered, disagreeably, Flint’s “I don’t like the expression of his teeth:  he looks like he’d bite.”