“It’s the case with the oak-gall,” said Gilead. “Irony is absurd in commenting on the ways of Nature.”
The stranger glanced at him rather balefully, and resumed his chopping but languidly.
“I don’t know, after all, that you’ll suit me,” he said.
“Never mind about that at present,” said Gilead. “The business of the honorarium being waived, this becomes a mere friendly accommodation.”
“But it’s just the friendliness I question,” answered the stranger, aggrieved.
He laboured for a little in a sullen silence, while Gilead, totally forgetful of his own inactivity, watched him, pursuing his thoughts the while.
“Brixton,” he said abstractedly, “is not Norwood; but it neighbours on it.”
“I perceive,” snapped the other, “that you are quite a traveller.”
Gilead hardly heard him. He was speculating as to how he could most tellingly introduce the subject of his mission.
“There are butterflies,” he said suddenly and firmly, “in the Zermatt Valley.”