“What a strange thing!” he said. “And you are fond of gathering pretty flowers?” he continued, with a glance at my treasure. “All flowers are pretty,” I replied. “But surely, señor, some are prettier than others. Perhaps you have observed a particularly pretty one growing in these parts--the white margarita?” Margarita is the Oriental vernacular for verbena; the fragrant white variety is quite common in the country; so that I was justified in ignoring the fellow's rather impudent meaning. Assuming as wooden an expression as I could, I replied, “Yes, I have often observed the flower you speak of; it is fragrant, and to my mind surpasses in beauty the scarlet and purple varieties. But you must know, my friend, that I am a botanist--that is, a student of plants--and they are all equally interesting to me.” This astonished him; and, pleased with the interest he appeared to take in the subject, I explained, in simple language, the principles on which a classification of plants is founded, telling him about that _lingua franca_ by means of which all the botanists in the world of all nations are able to converse together about plants. From this somewhat dry subject I launched into the more fascinating one of the physiology of plants. “Now, look at this,” I continued, and with my penknife I carefully dissected the flower in my hand, for it was evident that I could not now give it to Margarita without exposing myself to remarks. I then proceeded to explain to him the beautiful complex structure by means of which this campanula fertilises itself. He listened in wonder, exhausting all the Spanish and Oriental equivalents of such expressions as “Dear me!” “How extraordinary!” “Lawks a mussy!” “You don't say so!” I finished my lecture, satisfied that my superior intellect had baffled the rude creature; then, tossingaway the fragments of the flower I had sacrificed, I restored the penknife to my pocket. “These are matters we do not often hear about in the Banda Orientál,” he said. “But the English know everything--even the secrets of a flower. They are also able to do most things. Did you ever, sir botanist, take part in acting a comedy?” After all, I had wasted my flower and scientific knowledge on the animal for nothing! “Yes, I have!” I replied rather angrily; then, suddenly remembering Eyebrows' teaching, I added, “and in tragedy also.” “Is that so?” he exclaimed. “How amused the spectators must have been! Well, we can all have our fill of fighting presently, for I see the _White Flower_ coming this way to tell us that breakfast is ready. Batata's roast beef will give something for our knives to do; I only wish we had one of his own floury namesakes to eat with it.” I swallowed my resentment, and when Margarita came to us, looked up into her matchless face with a smile, then rose to follow her into the kitchen. CHAPTER X