"They keep the real honey for the royal butterflies," suggested Eleanor.

"Exactly! What chance on earth for an old bumble bee of a drudge like
me without any wings and frills and things, all weighted down with
cares of state?" And Moyese mopped the moisture from a good natured
red face, that looked anything but weighted down by the cares of state.
"You know, don't you," he added, "that the flies actually do prefer
white flowers; bees t' th' blue; butterflies, red; and the moths,
white?"


So this was the manner of man representing the forces challenging to
the great national fight, a lover of flowers paying tribute to all
things beautiful; good-natured, smiling, easy-going, soft-speaking; the
embodiment of vested rights done up in a white waist-coat. Soldiers of
the firing line had fought dragons in the shape of savages and white
bandits in the early days; but this dragon had neither horns nor hoofs.
It was a courtly glossy-faced pursuer of gainful occupations according
to a limited light and very much according to a belief that freedom
meant freedom to make and take and break independent of the other
fellow's rights. In fact, as Eleanor looked over the dragon with its
wide strong jaw and plausible eyes and big gripping hand she very much
doubted whether the conception had ever dawned on the big dome head
that the _other_ fellow had _any_ rights. The man was not the
baby-eating monster of the muck-rakers. Neither was he a gentleman--he
had had a narrow escape from that--the next generation of him would
probably be one. He gave the impression of a passion for only one
thing--getting. If people or things or laws came in the way of that
getting, so much the worse for them.