He’s got it in his pocket now.  Dabney calls him Mister Bones,” grinned Laurence.

My mother looked profoundly uncomfortable.  The Butterfly Man reddened guiltily under her reproachful glance, but Mary Virginia giggled irrepressibly.

“I choose the Book of Obituaries first!” said she promptly, with dancing eyes.  Flint drew a breath of relief.

He sat by silently enough, while Laurence and Madame and Mary Virginia talked of everything under heaven.  His whole manner was that of an amused, tolerant, sympathetic listener—­a manner which spurs conversation to its happiest and best.  Not for nothing had Major Cartwright called him the most discriminatin’ listener in Carolina.

“Oh, by the way, Flint!  Hunter came by this morning to see Dabney.  He is going to give a series of Plain Talks to Workingmen this winter, and of course he wants the Clarion to cover them.  What do you think, Padre?”

“I think they will be eminently sensible talks and well worth listening to,” said I promptly.

The Butterfly Man smiled crookedly, and shot me a freighted glance.

“Of course,” said Laurence, easily.  “Where’s your father these days, Mary Virginia?”

“He was at the plantation this morning, but he’ll be here to-morrow, because I wired him to come.  I’ve just got to have him for awhile, business or no business.”

“You did me a favor, then.  I want to see him, too.”

“Anything very particular?”

“Politics.”

“How silly!  You know very well he never meddles with politics, thank goodness!  He thinks he has something better to do.”

“That’s just what I want to see him about,” said Laurence.

“You mentioned a—­a Mr. Hunter.”  Mary Virginia spoke after a short pause.  “This is the first time I’ve heard of any Mr. Hunter in Appleboro.  Who is Mr. Hunter?”

“Inglesby’s right-bower, and the king-card of the pack,” said Laurence promptly.

“One of them which set up golden images in high places and make all Israel for to sin,” said my mother. “That’s what Howard Hunter is!”

“Oh, ...  Howard Hunter!” said she.  “What sort of a person may he be?  And what is he doing here in Appleboro?”

We told her according to our lights.  Only the Butterfly Man sat silent and imperturbable.

“And you’ll meet him everywhere,” finished my mother.  “He’s everything a man should be to the naked eye, and I sincerely hope,” she added piously, “that you won’t like him at all.”

Mary Virginia leaned back in her chair, and glanced thoughtfully down at the slim ringless hands clasped in her white lap.

“No,” said she, as if to herself.  “There couldn’t by any chance be two such men in this one world.  That is he, himself.”  And she lifted her head, and glanced at my mother, with a level and proud look.  “I think I have met this Mr. Hunter,” said she, smiling curiously.  “And if that is true, your hope is realized, p’tite Madame.  I shan’t.”