“Yes,” I answered rather doubtfully, “but the matter seems a little serious.  Your parent was very emphatic as to his intentions, and after this kind of thing,” and I pointed to the beautiful silver and the port, “how will you like roughing it in a hard world?”

“Don’t think I shall mind a bit; it would be rather a pleasant change.  Also, even if my father doesn’t alter his mind, as he may, for he likes me at bottom because I resemble my dear mother, things ain’t so very bad.  I have got some money that she left me, £6,000 or £7,000, and I’ll sell that ‘Odontoglossum Pavo’ for what it will fetch to Sir Joshua Tredgold—­he was the man with the long beard who you tell me ran up Woodden to over £2,000—­or failing him to someone else.  I’ll write about it to-night.  I don’t think I have any debts to speak of, for the Governor has been allowing me £3,000 a year, at least that is my share of the profits paid to me in return for my bullion-broking labours, and except flowers, I have no expensive tastes.  So the devil take the past, here’s to the future and whatever it may bring,” and he polished off the glass of port he held and laughed in his jolly fashion.

Really he was a most attractive young man, a little reckless, it is true, but then recklessness and youth mix well, like brandy and soda.

I echoed the toast and drank off my port, for I like a good glass of wine when I can get it, as would anyone who has had to live for months on rotten water, although I admit that agrees with me better than the port.

“Now, Mr. Quatermain,” he went on, “if you have done, light your pipe and let’s go into the other room and study that Cypripedium of yours.  I shan’t sleep to-night unless I see it again first.  Stop a bit, though, we’ll get hold of that old ass, Woodden, before he turns in.”

“Woodden,” said his master, when the gardener had arrived, “this gentleman, Mr. Quatermain, is going to show you an orchid that is ten times finer than ‘O.  Pavo!’”

“Beg pardon, sir,” answered Woodden, “but if Mr. Quatermain says that, he lies.  It ain’t in Nature; it don’t bloom nowhere.”

I opened the case and revealed the golden Cypripedium.  Woodden stared at it and rocked.  Then he stared again and felt his head as though to make sure it was on his shoulders.  Then he gasped.

“Well, if that there flower baint made up, it’s a master one!  If I could see that there flower ablowing on the plant I’d die happy.”

“Woodden, stop talking, and sit down,” exclaimed his master.  “Yes, there, where you can look at the flower.  Now, Mr. Quatermain, will you tell us the story of that orchid from beginning to end.  Of course omitting its habitat if you like, for it isn’t fair to ask that secret.  Woodden can be trusted to hold his tongue, and so can I.”

I remarked that I was sure they could, and for the next half-hour talked almost without interruption, keeping nothing back and explaining that I was anxious to find someone who would finance an expedition to search for this particular plant; as I believed, the only one of its sort that existed in the world.