"
Which paradox, being too much for her in the heat of the day, she
put aside in favor of the insinuating thought of her beetle man.
Whatever else he might or might not be, he wasn't alike. She was
by no means sure that she found this difference either admirable
or amiable. But at least it was interesting.
Moreover, she was piqued. For four days had passed and the recluse
had not returned her call. True, there had come to her hotel a
wicker full of superb wild tree blooms, and, again, a tiny box,
cunning in workmanship of scented wood, containing what at first
glance she had taken to be a jewel, until she saw that it was a
tiny butterfly with opalescent wings, mounted on a silver wire.
But with them had come no word or token of identification. Perhaps
they weren't from the queer and remote person at all. Very likely
Mr. Raimonda had sent them; or Fitzhugh Carroll was adding secret
attention to his open homage; or they might even be a further
peace offering from the Hochwald secretary.
That occasionally too festive diplomat had, indeed, made amends
both profound and, evidently, sincere.
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