“Love, and judge not—that is, don’t find fault. When you learn to love, you will not wish to judge; you will not see the faults; you will see only the good in everybody.”
The Butterfly would have found the experience dull, but that on the edge of the assemblage she spied a handsome male acquaintance. This enabled her to await the end of the lecture with heroic patience. Her face wore an expression indicative of complete indifference to his presence, for that was part of her method of attracting moths, though in fact she saw nothing and thought of nothing but him. It goes without saying that as soon as Gabriel Norris had dismissed his people, this imposing moth was by her side. She greeted him with demure civility, as though he was the most ordinary apparition that could loom up—for that, too, was in her tactics—then presented him to Cartice as Mr. Prescott.
He had a reverent way with women, unstudied and natural, which usually won their good will and sometimes more at the first meeting. He took her hand with old-fashioned friendliness, and as he looked into her face, and her eyes met his, the mask of self-repression she had been wearing slipped aside for a moment, and her sore and suffering spirit stood in mute appeal before him, and he saw and understood.
“Show Mr. Prescott your sketch, Mrs. Doring, please,” said the Butterfly. Without demur Cartice opened her sketch book which she had brought to give the finishing touches to Gabriel’s picture. Prescott started in surprise when he saw it. After a moment or so of silence, he said, “It is admirable.”
Mrs. Doring’s face glowed. A word of praise with the genuine ring in it warmed her heart to the core.
“You draw well, too, Mrs. Layton,” he said, with a significant smile; “but not in the same way.”
The Butterfly disdained to reply. Turning to Cartice, with the most winning deference, he said, “I should like to purchase your sketch, when completed, Mrs. Doring. I want to publish it. Write me a description of the services here this morning, to go with it, will you not? You can write, I know without asking.” (Mentally—If she would write what her eyes tell it would move the world.)
“Mr. Prescott is the editor of the Register,” said the Butterfly, by way of explanation.
“I shall be delighted to do so,” Cartice answered, with swelling heart.
“And do some more of the same kind of work afterward. I want things like that—plenty of them,” he said.