Mr Vaughan pursued the subject of the purse no further, but looking through the lattice-work and perceiving Smythje in chase of the butterflies, endeavoured to draw his daughter’s attention to that sportive gentleman.
This was the more easily done as Mr Smythje was at the moment humming a tune, and could be heard as well as seen.
“‘I’d be a butterfly,’—”
sang Smythje—
“‘born in a bower,
Where lilies, and roses, and violets meet;
Sporting for ever, from flower to flower;
And—’”
And then, as if to contradict this pleasant routine of insect life, he was at that instant seen seizing a splendid vanessa, and crushing the frail creature between his kid-gloved fingers!
“Isn’t he a superb fellow?” said Mr Vaughan, first gazing enthusiastically on Smythje, and then fixing his eyes upon his daughter, to note the character of the reply.
“I suppose he must be, papa—since everybody says so.”
There was no enthusiasm in Kate’s answer—nothing to encourage the Custos.
“Don’t you think so, Kate?”
This was coming more directly to the point; but the response proved equally evasive.
“You think so, papa—and that should do for both of us.”