The Golden Butterfly. Walter Besant

example," said Ladds, "took what he ought not to have taken."

      "O Captain Ladds!" this was one of two ladies, she who had read up the new book before coming to the dinner, and had so far an advantage over the other – "that is just like one of the wicked things, the delightfully wicked things, in the Little Sphere. Now we know which of the two did the wicked things."

      "It was the other man," said Ladds.

      "Is it fair to ask," the lady went on, "how you wrote the book?"

      She was one of those who, could she get the chance, would ask Messieurs Erckmann and Chatrian themselves to furnish her with a list of the paragraphs and the ideas due to each in their last novel.

      Ladds looked as if the question was beyond his comprehension.

      At last he answered slowly —

      "Steel pen. The other man had a gold pen."

      "No – no; I mean did you write one chapter and your collaborateur the next, or how?"

      "Let me think it over," replied Ladds, as if it were a conundrum.

      Mrs. Cassilis came to the rescue.

      "At all events," she said, "the great thing is that the book is a success. I have not read it, but I hear there are many clever and witty things in it. Also some wicked things. Of course, if you write wickedness you are sure of an audience. I don't think, Mr. Dunquerque," she added, with a smile, "that it is the business of gentlemen to attack existing institutions."

      Jack shook his head.

      "It was not my writing. It was the other man. I did what I could to tone him down."

      "Have you read the immortal work?" Ladds asked his neighbour. He had not spoken to her yet, but he had eyes in his head, and he was gradually getting interested in the silent girl who sat beside him, and listened with such rapt interest to the conversation.

      This great and manifest interest was the only sign to show that Phillis was not accustomed to dinners in society.

      Ladds thought that she must be some shy maiden from the country – a little "rustical" perhaps. He noticed now that her eyes were large and bright, that her features were clear and delicate, that she was looking at himself with a curious pity, as if, which was indeed the case, she believed the statement about his having written the wicked things. And then he wondered how so bright a girl had been able to listen to the prosy dogmatics of Mr. Cassilis. Yet she had listened, and with pleasure.

      Phillis was at that stage in her worldly education when she would have listened with pleasure to anybody – Mr. Moody, a lecture on astronomy, a penny-reading, an amateur dramatic performance, or an essay in the Edinburgh. For everything was new. She was like the blind man who received his sight and saw men, like trees, walking. Every new face was a new world; every fresh speaker was a new revelation. No one to her was stupid, was a bore, was insincere, was spiteful, was envious, or a humbug, because no one was known. To him who does not know, the inflated india-rubber toy is as solid as a cannon-ball.

      "I never read anything," said Phillis, with a half blush. Not that she was ashamed of the fact, but she felt that it would have pleased Captain Ladds had she read his book. "You see, I have never learned to read."

      "Oh!"

      It was rather a facer to Ladds. Here was a young lady, not being a Spaniard, or a Sicilian, or a Levantine, or a Mexican, or a Paraguayan, or a Brazilian, or belonging to any country where such things are possible, who boldly confessed that she could not read. This in England; this in the year 1875; this in a country positively rendered unpleasant by reason of its multitudinous School Boards and the echoes of their wrangling!

      Jack Dunquerque, in his place, heard the statement and looked up involuntarily as if to see what manner of young lady this could be – a gesture of surprise into which the incongruity of the thing startled him. He caught her full face as she leaned a little forward, and his glance rested for a moment on a cheek so fair that his spirits fell. Beauty disarms the youthful squire, and arms him who has won his spurs. I speak in an allegory.

      Mrs. Cassilis heard it and was half amused, half angry.

      Mr. Cassilis heard it, opened his mouth, as if to make some remark about Mr. Dyson's method of education, but thought better of it.

      The two ladies heard it and glanced at her curiously. Then they looked at each other with the slightest uplifting of the eyebrow, which meant, "Who on earth can she be?"

      Mrs. Cassilis noted that too, and rejoiced, because she was going to bring forward a girl who would make everybody jealous.

      Ladds was the only one who spoke.

      "That," he said feebly, "must be very jolly."

      He began to wonder what could be the reason of this singular educational omission. Perhaps she had a crooked back; could not sit up to a desk, could not hold a book in her hand; but no, she was like Petruchio's Kate:

      "Like the hazel twig.

      As straight and slender."

      Perhaps her eyes were weak; but no, her eyes were sparkling with the "right Promethean fire." Perhaps she was of weak intellect; but that was ridiculous.

      Then the lady who had read the book began to ask more questions. I do not know anything more irritating than to be asked questions about your own book.

      "Will you tell us, Mr. Dunquerque, if the story of the bear-hunt is a true one, or did you make it up?"

      "We made up nothing. That story is perfectly true. And the man's name was Beck."

      "Curious," said Mr. Cassilis. "An American named Beck, Mr. Gilead P. Beck, is in London now, and has been recommended to me. He is extremely rich. I think, my dear, that you invited him to dinner to-day?'

      "Yes. He found he could not come at the last moment. He will be here in the evening."

      "Then you will see the very man," said Jack, "unless there is more than one Gilead P. Beck, which is hardly likely."

      "This man has practically an unlimited credit," said the host.

      "And talks, I suppose, like, well, like the stage Americans, I suppose," said his wife.

      "You know," Jack explained, "that the stage American is all nonsense. The educated American talks a great deal better than we do. He can string his sentences together; we can only bark."

      "Perhaps our bark is better than their bite," Ladds remarked.

      "A man who has unlimited credit may talk as he pleases," said Mr. Cassilis dogmatically.

      The two solemn young men murmured assent.

      "And he always did say that he was going to have luck. He carried about a Golden Butterfly in a box."

      "How deeply interesting!" replied the lady who had read the book. "And is that other story true, that you found an English traveller living all alone in a deserted city?"

      "Quite true."

      "Really. And who was it? Anybody one has met?"

      "I do not know whether you have ever met him. His name is Lawrence Colquhoun."

      Mrs. Cassilis flushed suddenly, and then her pale face became paler.

      "Lawrence Colquhoun, formerly of ours," said Ladds, looking at her.

      Mrs. Cassilis read the look to ask what business it was of hers, and why she changed colour at his name.

      "Colquhoun!" she said softly. Then she raised her voice and addressed her husband: "My dear, it is an old friend of mine of whom we are speaking, Mr. Lawrence Colquhoun."

      "Yes!" he had forgotten the name. "What did he do? I think I remember – " He stopped, for he remembered to have heard his wife's name in connection with this man. He felt a sudden pang of jealousy, a quite new and rather curious sensation. It passed, but yet he rejoiced that the man was out of England.

      "He is my guardian," Phillis said to Ladds. "And you actually know him? Will you tell me something about him presently?"

      When the men followed, half