“Thank you, no,” I answered, “I did not come here to buy.  I know nothing about orchids,” I added by way of explanation, “except a few I have seen growing in Africa, and this one,” and I tapped the tin case which I held under my arm.

“Indeed,” he said.  “I should like to hear about the African orchids.  What is it you have in the case, a plant or flowers?”

“One flower only.  It is not mine.  A friend in Africa asked me to—­ well, that is a long story which might not interest you.”

“I’m not sure.  I suppose it must be a Cymbidium scape from the size.”

I shook my head.  “That’s not the name my friend mentioned.  He called it a Cypripedium.”

The young man began to grow curious.  “One Cypripedium in all that large case?  It must be a big flower.”

“Yes, my friend said it is the biggest ever found.  It measures twenty-four inches across the wings, petals I think he called them, and about a foot across the back part.”

“Twenty-four inches across the petals and a foot across the dorsal sepal!” said the young man in a kind of gasp, “and a Cypripedium!  Sir, surely you are joking?”

“Sir,” I answered indignantly, “I am doing nothing of the sort.  Your remark is tantamount to telling me that I am speaking a falsehood.  But, of course, for all I know, the thing may be some other kind of flower.”

“Let me see it.  In the name of the goddess Flora let me see it!”

I began to undo the case.  Indeed it was already half-open when two other gentlemen, who had either overheard some of our conversation or noted my companion’s excited look, edged up to us.  I observed that they also wore orchids in their buttonholes.

“Hullo!  Somers,” said one of them in a tone of false geniality, “what have you got there?”

“What has your friend got there?” asked the other.

“Nothing,” replied the young man who had been addressed as Somers, “nothing at all; that is—­only a case of tropical butterflies.”

“Oh! butterflies,” said No. 1 and sauntered away.  But No. 2, a keen-looking person with the eye of a hawk, was not so easily satisfied.

“Let us see these butterflies,” he said to me.

“You can’t,” ejaculated the young man.  “My friend is afraid lest the damp should injure their colours.  Ain’t you, Brown?”

“Yes, I am, Somers,” I replied, taking his cue and shutting the tin case with a snap.

Then the hawk-eyed person departed, also grumbling, for that story about the damp stuck in his throat.

“Orchidist!” whispered the young man.  “Dreadful people, orchidists, so jealous.  Very rich, too, both of them.  Mr. Brown—­I hope that is your name, though I admit the chances are against it.”

“They are,” I replied, “my name is Allan Quatermain.”

“Ah! much better than Brown.  Well, Mr. Allan Quatermain, there’s a private room in this place to which I have admittance.  Would you mind coming with that——­” here the hawk-eyed gentleman strolled past again, “that case of butterflies?”