From there we went to the museum to look over the specimens, and in a moment Una and Jerry were deep in a butterfly talk. There Jack and I left them, taking Mrs. Habberton into the main hall, where I rang for one of the maids who showed her to her room. "Well," I asked of Jack. "What do you think of her?" "What I think is of course a matter of no importance to Jerry. But since you ask, I don't mind telling you that I love her to distraction. Where are the boy's eyes? His ears? And all the rest of his receptive organs? If I were ten years younger--" and he patted his _embonpoint_ regretfully, "I'd ask something of her charity, something immediate and practical. She should found the John K. Ballard Home, Pope, a want of mine for many years. But, alas! She has eyes only for Jerry." "Do you really think so?" I asked. "Yes, I do. And he's not worth bothering about. He ought to be shot, offhand." "I entirely agree with you," I smiled. Dinner that night was gay and most informal. Jack was at his best and gave us in inimitable satire a description of a luncheon at Newport in honor of a prize chow dog attended by all the high-bred pups of Bellview Avenue, including Jack's own bull terrier Scotty, which in an inadvertent moment devoured the small Pekingese of Jack's nearest neighbor, a dereliction of social observance which caused the complete and permanent social ostracism of Scotty--and Jack. "How terrible!" said Una. "It was, really, but it was a kind of poetic canine justice, you know. The Pekingese just stared at Scotty and stared without wagging his tail. Very impolite, not wagging your tail at a luncheon. Scotty grew embarrassed and angry and then--just took him at a gulp. It was the easiest way out." "Or _in_," I suggested. "Scotty is naturally polite. He never _could_ abide a tail that wouldn't wag." "Nor can I," said Una with a laugh. "Dogs' tails _must_ be meant to wag, or what are they there for? I wish people had tails and then you could tell whether they were pleasant or not." "Some of 'em have," said Jack. "Hoofs too--and horns." "I don't believe that," she laughed. Jerry took no animated part in the conversation except when we spoke of Una's work. Then he waxed eloquent until Una stopped him. Mrs. Habberton, I think, watched Jerry a little dubiously as though there was something about him that she couldn't understand. Some feminine instinct was waking. But Una's cheerfulness and interest in all things was unabated. We three men smoked--I, too, for I had lately fallen from grace--with the ladies' permission in the drawing-room where Una played upon the piano and sang. I don't think that Jerry had known about her music for he had said nothing of it to me, and when her voice began softly: "Oh doux printemps d'autrefois"-- Massenet's "Elegie," as I afterwards learned--a hush fell over the room and we three men sat staring at the sweet upturned profile, as her lovely throat gave forth the tender sad refrain: