“See here—this is the kind of thing,” said Sylvester, going down on his knees and opening one of the wooden boxes with a key he took from his pocket. “By the way, what is your name?”
“Draco.”
“Draco—right. Well, mine is Sylvester.”
“Xilvesta?”
“That’s near enough. Now, Draco, look at these bottles. Butterflies—all butterflies, see? And here are some photographs I took outside Salonika. I want more butterflies, more photographs. Ten drachmæ a day for the man who’ll come with me and show me where to find what I want.”
“I’ll come, sir.”
“Will you? Yes, I think you’ll do. You look strong enough.”
Draco was dark and bronzed and tall. He had quick, restless eyes, and a smile that said: “How fine it is to be alive!”
“Well, that’s a bargain, see?” said Sylvester. “We’ll start to-morrow at six.”
If ever there was a man made for the open air, that man was Draco. He accepted his mother’s cottage as one of the unavoidable evils of life. And he was a born hunter. His eyes swallowed everything, and his quick elastic step was as graceful as the walk of a thoroughbred. His mind was stored with facts. To look at his eager face with its large, vehement eyes and sensitive mouth—all so desperately alive—was to receive the impression that here was a man who, even in his sleep, could never be entirely at rest. The sun, one felt, was in his blood. He was as unstable and fluid as quicksilver.