The frail, amber-tinted little dragon-flies of the South came hovering over the lotus bloom that edged the basin; long, narrow-shaped butterflies whose velvet-black wings were barred with brilliant stripes of canary yellow fluttered across the forest aisle; now and then a giant papilio sailed high under the arched foliage on tiger-striped wings of chrome and black, or a superb butterfly in pearl white and malachite green came flitting about the sparkle-berry bloom.

The girl nodded toward it.  “That is a scarce butterfly here,” she said.  “Gray would be excited.  I wish we had his net here.”

“It is the Victorina, isn’t it?” he asked, watching the handsome, nervous-winged creature which did not seem inclined to settle on the white flowers.

“Yes, the Victorina steneles.  Are you interested?”

“The generation I grew up with collected,” he said.  “I remember my cabinet, and some of the names.  But I never saw any fellows of this sort in the North.”

“Your memory is good?”

“Yes,” he said, “for what I care about”—­he looked up at her—­“for those I care about my memory is good, I never forget kindness—­nor confidence given—­nor a fault forgiven.”

She bent forward, elbows on knees, chin propped on both linked hands.

“Do you understand now,” she said, “why I could not afford the informality of our first meeting?  What you have heard about me explains why I can scarcely afford to discard convention, does it not, Mr. Hamil?”

She went on, her white fingers now framing her face and softly indenting the flushed skin: 

“I don’t know who has talked to you, or what you have heard; but I knew by your expression—­there at the swimming-pool—­that you had heard enough to embarrass you and—­and hurt me very, very keenly.”

“Calypso!” he broke out impulsively; but she shook her head.  “Let me tell you if it must be told, Mr. Hamil....  Father and mother are dreadfully sensitive; I have only known about it for two years; two years ago they told me—­had to tell me....  Well—­it still seems hazy and incredible....  I was educated in a French convent—­if you know what that means.  All my life I have been guarded—­sheltered from knowledge of evil; I am still unprepared to comprehend—...  And I am still very ignorant; I know that....  So you see how it was with me; a girl awakened to such self-knowledge cannot grasp it entirely—­cannot wholly convince herself except at moments—­at night.  Sometimes—­when a crisis threatens—­and one has lain awake long in the dark—­”

She gathered her knees in her arms and stared at the patch of sunlight that lay across the hem of her gown, leaving her feet shod in gold.

“I don’t know how much difference it really makes to the world.  I suppose I shall learn—­if people are to discuss me.  How much difference does it make, Mr. Hamil?”

“It makes none to me—­”