He went away a few days later. The Butterfly Hunter waited with me in the parlour to say good-bye to the Lad; he was making a parting call on Janet.
“I must be away in a few days too,” said the Butterfly Hunter.
“Is it a new trip?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered cheerfully. “My last butterfly died yesterday. The experiment was a failure. I am going to the East for a new collection.”
Through the window I could see the Man of the World, who was standing on the street corner, watching the passers-by. His new suit looked very fresh. The trousers were carefully creased, and turned up twice at the bottom. The Man of the World was probably waiting, though he would not have admitted it, for a last word with the Lad. The air of the summer afternoon made him more languid than ever. It was a pathetic little figure.
“He will never do any genuine living,” I thought, “but will always be a spectator, bored and sad.”
The Lad came back with his quick, running step. He was excited. The hair above his broad, white forehead was in disorder as he said good-bye; his eyes were radiant with pure joy.
“I shall be here again in a week,” he said, as he grasped his bag, “and ready for the fray once more.”
I watched him as he went down the street. Once he looked back, lifted his hat, then disappeared.
The keenness of my pride in the Lad almost hurt me. If his mother could only know him now!