The gnomes crossed the brook and went in at the little door; and as they did so a big butterfly, gorgeously painted, came flying out.
Inside, in a little room, a little old man with a long white beard and goggle-eyes was sitting behind a little table. On the table before him was row after row of acorn cups, hundreds of them, each one filled with a colored powder, and every color different from all the others. The little old man was a Painter of Butterflies. He dipped a tiny hair brush into one of the cups of powder, and said:
“Wait a minute, please. I’ve got to finish this wing.”
A butterfly was lying on the table before him, all finished except for a spot on one wing; and dozens of other butterflies were waiting their turns on a bench by the wall; these last had no colors on their wings at all.
The Painter of Butterflies touched up the wing before him with an orange-colored powder, and said:
“Now you’ll do. Off with you!”
The butterfly fluttered, rose in the air, and sailed out through the door.
“You’re next,” said the Painter.
Malkin put down his butterfly on the table, and Nibby laid down his cup of powder.