confidence by relating what the bewitched sleeper on the bench had said
under the spell of the moon.

The result was most gratifying. The butterfly assured me with
indignation that it was only a cold in her head, which had been annoying
her for days: _that_ was what made her eyes act so, and I was a
suspicious and malevolent old gentleman--and--and--and perhaps some day
she and Mr. Martin Dyke might happen to meet.

"Is that a message?" I asked.

"No," answered the butterfly with a suspicion of panic in her eyes.

"Then?" I queried.

"He's so--so awfully go-aheadish," she complained.

"I'll drop him a hint," I offered kindly.

"It might do some good. I'm afraid of him," she confessed.

"And a little bit of yourself?" I suggested.

The look of scorn which she bent upon me would have withered
incontinently anything less hardy than a butterfly-devouring orchid. It
passed and thoughtfulness supplanted it. "If you really think that he
could be influenced to be more--well, more conventional--"

"I guarantee nothing; but I'm a pedagogue by profession and have taught
some hard subjects in my time."