Breitmann arranged his papers neatly and waited to be dismissed. He had seen M. Ferraud at Swan's, but had formed no opinion regarding him; in fact, the growth of his interest had stopped at indifference. On his part, the new arrival never so much as gave the secretary a second glance--the first was sufficient. And while the admiral read on, M. Ferraud examined the broken skin on his palms. "Mr. Ferraud! Well, well; this is a great honor, I'm sure. It was very kind of them to send you here. Where is your luggage?" "I am stopping at Swan's Hotel." "We shall have your things up this very night." "Oh!" said Ferraud, in protest; though this was the very thing he desired. "Not a word!" The admiral summoned the butler, who was the general factotem at The Pines, and gave a dozen orders. "Ah, you Americans!" laughed M. Ferraud, pyramiding his fingers. "You leave us breathless." "Your book has delighted me. But I'm afraid my collection will not pay you for your trouble." "That is for me to decide. My South American specimens are all seconds. On the other hand, you have netted yours yourself." And straightway a bond of friendship was riveted between these two men which still remains bright and untarnished by either absence or forgetfulness. They bent over the cases, agreed and disagreed, the one with the sharp gestures, the other with the rise and fall of the voice. For them nothing else existed; they were truly engrossed. Breitmann, hiding a smile that was partly a yawn, stole quietly away. Butterflies did not excite his concern in the least. M. Ferraud was charmed. He was voluble. Never had he entered a more homelike place, large enough to be called a chateau, yet as cheerful as a winter's fire. And the daughter! Her French was the elegant speech of Tours, her German Hanoverian. Incomparable! And she was not married? _Helas_! How many luckless fellows walked the world desolate? And this was M. Fitzgerald the journalist? And M. Breitmann had also been one? How delighted he was to be here! All this flowed on with perfect naturalness; there wasn't a false note anywhere. At dinner he diffused a warmth and geniality which were infectious. Laura was pleased and amused; and she adored her father for these impulses which brought to the board, unexpectedly, such men as M. Ferraud. M. Ferraud did not smoke, but he dissipated to the extent of drinking three small cups of coffee after dinner. "You are right," he acknowledged--there had been a slight dispute relative to the methods of roasting the berry--"Europe does not roast its coffee, it burns it. The aroma, the bouquet! I am beaten." "So am I," Fitzgerald reflected sadly, snatching a vision of the girl's animated face.