"Yes. But once the liberty of choice is exercised, freedom ends. I choose my profession. There my liberty ends, because instantly I am enslaved by the conditions which make my choice a profession."
She was deeply interested. A mossy log lay near them; she seated herself to listen, her elbow on her knee, and her chin cupped in her hand. But Jones became silent.
"Were you not in that funny little boat that passed the inlet about three hours ago?" she asked.
"The Orange Puppy? Yes."
"What an odd name for a boat—the Orange Puppy!"[36]
"An orange puppy," he explained, "is the name given in the Florida orange groves to the caterpillar of a large swallow-tail butterfly, which feeds on orange leaves. The butterfly it turns into is known to entomologists as Papilio cresphontes and Papilio thoas. The latter is a misnomer."
She gazed upon this young man in undisguised admiration.
"Once," she said, "when I was nine years old, I ran away from a governess and two trained nurses. They found me with both hands full of muddy pollywogs. It has nothing to do with what you are saying, but I thought I'd tell you."
He insisted that the episode she recalled was most interesting and unusual, considered purely as a human document.
"Would you tell me what you are doing down here in these forests?" she asked, "—as we are discussing human documents."